Prevarication
by NefarioussNess
Summary: Stiles' eyes immediately zeroed in on the mentioned guy. He was older, probably in his mid to late thirties. His hair was carefully gelled back and he wore a dark V-neck with a dangerously low neckline. He gave Stiles a wry smile, gripping the stem of his wine glass before giving him a brief toast. Stiles raised an eyebrow, but followed suit, taking a long dreg of beer.
1. Chapter 1

The three of them have a system when it comes to Stiles: if only one of them got a text from him then he was in trouble. It was like a code—well, more of a tripwire that allowed the entire trio know that something had gone terribly wrong. Scott and Allison had learned that with Stiles, anything was possible and it was best not to let any loose threads fly off into the wind.

The system had started back in high school when it had just been Scott and Stiles after a devastating kidnapping. One of the Sheriff's suspects for a murder case at the time finally cracked and tried to go off the grid with Stiles in tow. The suspect tried using Stiles as a safety measure, a human shield in order to guarantee himself his freedom. In short, the guy's insane plan backfired when Scott (on his bike of all things) managed to track down the place where he was keeping Stiles hostage. The man's trial (found guilty, of course) was delayed greatly after being caught due to a number of broken ribs he received from one desperately loyal best friend.

For the longest time Scott refused to let Stiles out of his sight. At first Stiles appreciated—and was outright flattered—by his friend's concern. But soon enough, the claustrophobia and mild annoyance of having Scott so close by settled in, and Stiles managed to duck out of his sight long enough to get a breather at the mall.

_'If I don't text you back in 10 minutes, call my dad. I've probably been murdered.'_ Stiles had sent this off as a lighthearted reminder for his buddy to check in on him, but Scott was less than amused. In fact, he began to freak out, phoning Stiles constantly until he got back to him twenty minutes later.

"I was just checking something out," Stiles had protested as Scott drew him into a tight hug. "Seriously dude, it's the middle of the day! Who would be stupid enough to—?"

It didn't matter that Stiles had been in a populated area buying the latest Billy Talent CD, Scott was so shaken that he refused to let his best friend out of his sight for the rest of the evening. Stiles remembered falling asleep at some point during their movie marathon that he insisted upon ("If you're gonna be my warden then we might as well keep ourselves entertained!"), and had woken up to finding Scott curled up in his lap, his eyes red and face streaked with tears. Guilt had gripped Stiles so tightly that he promised himself to never pull that stunt again. It had been unnecessarily cruel; he had thrown all of Scott's concerns back into his face without meaning to. He needed to give Scott a peace of mind, and remembered to text him whenever he left and arrived at a place from then on.

This continued into college, where Scott met Allison on their first day and fell head over heels in love with her. Stiles knew better than to ease up on their "security measures", even though ninety percent of his friend's brain was now occupied by thoughts of Allison, her smile, and his mountain of homework. The three of them hung out constantly, and Stiles worried that he was becoming the uncomfortable third wheel. Allison had laughed this off, saying that she loved his company. "You're welcome to leave when it starts to get intimate," she had said slyly, giving Stiles a wink before kissing his forehead.

Scott began to relax with Allison around, and didn't even scold Stiles when he forgot to text back one time. His need to touch and embrace Stiles every time he saw him wasn't ever going away, and Stiles could live with that. Hell, he _lived_ for it.

With both of them now being so-called responsible adults, Stiles decided that now was the time to enjoy his freedom a little.

His first hook-up ever was the gorgeously scary Erica Reyes. They had met at the on-campus bar where she had worked part-time. Erica wasn't a student at the university, but that didn't stop her from flaunting her goods and flirting with the overstressed boys looking for company. She was off duty when she had ambled over to his table and took a seat right next to him. Stiles remembered Erica's plunging neckline and her massive flurry of blonde curls. He remembered how her seductive smile had turned his brain into a puddle of gray matter. He remembered how she had whispered into his ear, breathily telling him that her roommate was out of town for the weekend and had laughed softly when Stiles' face flushed a deep red.

It didn't matter that this was Stiles' first time with a woman or that Erica may or may not have several relationships before him. They both wanted to have a good time, and there was a relative compatibility between the two of them.

They discovered a few of Stiles' kinks that night, with one of them being the submissive partner. Erica had no problem taking up the mantle of the dominant; in fact, she relished in it. She straddled his hips, holding his wrists down as she bit kisses along his jawline and grinned victoriously from his eliciting moans. ("It doesn't take much to make you beg for mercy, now does it?")

But Erica wasn't easily satisfied. Every kiss, hickey and scratch mark was all in preparation for their enjoyment, for something bigger and better. As her tongue explored the back of his throat she was digging two fingers into herself, moaning with pleasure. Stiles wasn't sure what to do while was doing this, so he slid his hot hands over bare hips. Erica soon broke the kiss, adding a third finger that went knuckle-deep. Stiles felt his entire body flush, an unbearable heat pooling in his—

Erica had ripped her fingers out, and had flipped the two of them with relative ease. She had Stiles hovering over her, hesitating. "I should get a condom," he muttered into her chest. Erica grinned wickedly, and grabbed both of Stiles' wrists. "Palms out," she ordered. Once Stiles obeyed, Erica placed his quivering hands on top of her breasts.

"Come on," she encouraged, seeing Stiles' burning face. "Give them a good squeeze."

"I, umm—shit," Stiles sputtered, because how was he supposed to react to this without sounding like an enormous pervert? Oh God, he was touching Erica's _breasts_ but she put his hands there and oh God they were so soft and now he was acting like the biggest virgin ever—

"Honey," Erica whispered, leaning upwards to give him a filthy kiss, "I'm giving you my _blessing_. Touch all you want." She placed her hands over his, and pushed down. Stiles' heart was pounding, threatening to burst out of his ribcage. This was happening, actually happening, and here was Erica going through the motions with him. He swallowed, and gently tugged his hands out from under hers, gliding them down to her flat stomach. He felt tears stinging his eyes. "I have no idea what I'm doing," he admitted shamefully.

He felt Erica move underneath him, and was now in a sitting position. "Nobody does the first time," she murmured into his ear. "Not even me. Porn can't teach you all the tricks, as much as it would like to." She kissed the underside of his jaw as her arms entwined around his neck, drawing him close. "I'll guide you through it. Sex is all about satisfying one another. You scratch my back and all that jazz."

Stiles shuddered as Erica licked his mouth open, his brain going fuzzy from her playful tongue. After a long minute Erica drew back, and Stiles saw how dark and lust-filled her eyes had become.

"Stiles," she said breathily, "I need that big, hard cock of yours in my pussy. Right now." She slowly untangled her arms from his neck and palmed his perspiring chest, dragging them down until they reached his trail. "I'm getting wet just looking into those eyes of yours, and it's driving me crazy." She pressed her cleavage against his chest as she began to unhook her black bra. Stiles found himself gripping her hips as the bra fell free from its constraints.

"Condom?" Stiles asked, and Erica reached over into her nightstand and produced the square packet. Stiles hands shook as he pulled it on, making sure that it was on correctly. He was ready, really ready, so he lowered Erica back onto her mattress and began to slowly push inside her. He took her little moans as needy encouragement. Her nails digging into his back was a sign that he wasn't royally fucking up.

By the end of it Stiles was wiped out, drained and wrung out but completely satisfied.

"So, how did I do?" he had asked, because he honestly wasn't sure that he had lived up to Erica's expectations. She was the goddamn Champion, with Stiles merely being a Trainer without his first Badge. (God, did he just pervert his own childhood?)

Erica hummed absentmindedly, trailing her fingers down Stiles' chest, causing him to shiver. Erica grinned, baring her teeth at him. "Not too bad for a first-timer," she teased. "Though I felt you faltering near the end."

Stiles blushed fiercely. One of the highlights of their sex was when Erica had climbed on top of him and rode him like a champ. _ "Come on honey, don't make me do all of the work," _she had ordered, her manicured nails digging into his shoulders. Stiles had groaned, and tried to keep up with her rabid pace. He failed miserably. She was still in control, and Stiles was willing to give it to her.

"We can, uh, try again?" Stiles meekly suggested. Erica responded by rolling on top of him and licked a strip up his throat and into his mouth.

* * *

The texting system held up for another good five years, and Stiles had moved on from steamy campus hook-ups to exploring the unchartered waters of low-lit clubs of downtown life. He and Erica still hooked up when they had no other plans or when one of them needed a quickie at Erica's place, though those were now few and far between as the years rolled by. Stiles once asked her if they were lovers, and she gave him a rare shy smile before dressing him in a necklace of hickeys. She must have rubbed off on him, sex-wise, because Stiles was now venturing off on his own, casually flirting with the other patrons. Sometimes he gained a new number and depending on the individual he would keep them for future purposes. Most of them he threw out for unexplained reasons. He told himself that he didn't want to get attached.

His partners varied in gender; Stiles saw no purpose in being picky as long as the person wasn't an asshole or seemed genuinely understanding that no, he wasn't looking for a committed relationship at this time. Scott often asked if he had found "the One." _"Uh, they didn't show up tonight,"_ Stiles would jokingly say, and for some reason his gut twisted in a painful manner.

Stiles would watch the way Allison and Scott would look at each other with adoring eyes. Their universes were perfectly aligned with one another, and Stiles truly believed that he would never find someone so impeccably in tune with him and vice versa. He once confessed this to Allison while Scott was working at the vet, and suddenly found a lump in his throat. He couldn't breathe, and his eyes burned. Allison noticed immediately—God bless her—and made Stiles sit down on their couch, holding his hand until Stiles was ready to burst.

He had finally broken down into tears. Allison held him while he sobbed out his fears into her shoulder. Was he destined to be alone? Should he feel guilty that he didn't care? Would his mom be disappointed in him for selling his soul to every warm body that was willing to fuck him for the night?

Once he had calmed down enough she had made him green tea and soothingly asked him to drink it. "Am I a slut?" he asked her after taking a few sips. The water scalded his tongue, but he didn't care. Right now Allison's answer meant everything to him.

"No honey," she said, and Stiles' body flooded with relief at that simple answer. "There are many types of relationships and how people go about them. Some people like a monotonous or a poly one and some are more comfortable with casual ones. Some people are content to be by themselves and there's nothing wrong with that. As long as there's consent on both sides and you don't get hurt, Scott and I will support you."

When Scott arrived at home that evening he was greeted with the sight of Stiles' groggy form spread out on the couch, his lanky limbs hanging off the edges. _Pacific Rim_ was playing on their PS3, which was Stiles' go-to movie for when he was having a rough day. Scott quietly sat down in front of the couch, twining his fingers with Stiles' and giving them a squeeze. Allison soon joined them, saying that she ordered some food from that little Vietnamese restaurant that they all liked.

* * *

Old habits die hard, but Stiles was at least trying to break them. When he went to the bars and clubs he became choosier about his partners, selecting those who possess compatible personalities for one. Sometimes he would go home without engaging in a blowjob session in the bathroom stall. The relieved look on Scott's face and Allison's small smile before asking him if he wanted to get take-out with them made him feel like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Stiles especially felt proud of himself when he refused to go back to some hotel with a jerk-off named Jackson. He didn't like the idea of shagging some creep who obviously compensated with the shiny Porsche that was parked out front. Stiles may enjoy being the submissive one, but this Jackson looked like he would fully advantage of it and not for the right reasons.

"I'll pay you," the asshole insisted, digging his fingers into Stiles' thigh. Stiles jerked away, despising that hungry look on Jackson's face.

"I'm not a whore," Stiles said coldly. He grabbed Jackson's wrist and shoved his hand away from him.

Jackson glared at him, as if he was used to getting his way. He probably was, and Stiles' rejection was like the biggest blow to his ego. "I heard you were _easy_, that's the only reason why I asked," he sneered viciously, ditching Stiles at the bar counter for a group of barely legal girls at one of the corner tables. Stiles felt tears stinging his eyes, but he quickly wiped them away before ordering another beer. That douchebag wasn't going to ruin his night. He ordered a beer and concentrated on his breathing.

When the bartender—Stiles remembered his name being Vernon—handed him the cool bottle he said, "The gentleman at the end says it's on him."

Stiles' eyes immediately zeroed in on the mentioned guy. He was older, probably in his mid to late thirties. His hair was carefully gelled back and he wore a dark V-neck with a dangerously low neckline. He gave Stiles a wry smile, gripping the stem of his wine glass before giving him a brief toast. Stiles raised an eyebrow, but followed suit, taking a long dreg of beer. It had taken him a long time to get accustomed to the taste, but it was the cheapest drink on the menu, so he wasn't complaining.

When he looked up again the gentleman was sitting next to him. His leg brushed up against Stiles', causing a shiver to run down his spine.

"Thanks," Stiles said, gesturing at his empty bottle.

"Was that guy giving you any trouble?" the man asked him. His eyes were focused on Stiles, a burning blue color that was impossible to ignore. Stiles felt transfixed, so he quickly took in the rest of the man's face—clean-shaven, a hint of a tan—before replying.

"He basically called me a slut. It's nothing new."

Stiles would never give in to someone like Jackson. _As long as there's consent on both sides and you don't get hurt, Scott and I will support you _was Stiles' safety mantra in moments like these.

The man raised his eyebrows before shooting a quick glance in Jackson's direction. He had somehow coerced one of the girls into a make-out session at her table. "It looks like he got over his tantrum pretty quickly," he mused softly before returning his focus back onto Stiles. "I could break in his kneecaps for you if you like."

Stiles laughed. The man smiled, and politely asked Vernon for another round of drinks.

"Is this on you as well?" Stiles asked, cradling the bottle in his hand. The condensation was dripping down the sides, slicking his fingers with its cool moisture.

The man cocked his head, his face collective and calm. "That depends," he said carefully. "Will you give me the honor of your name?"

"Depends," Stiles parroted, feeling a small smirk coming on. "Can I get yours first? It's proper etiquette to introduce oneself before asking someone their name."

The man shook his head, but looking amused all the same. "It's Peter."

_Peter._ Stiles rolled the name around in his mouth, trying to get a good feel for it. "Hmm, not sure I can trust a guy named Peter," he said, faking deep concern about it.

Peter raised an eyebrow before raising his wine glass to his lips. "And why is that?" he asked. His voice ghosted over the top of the glass, breathy and curious.

"Anyone named Peter is a liar," Stiles explained. "Peter Parker is secretly Spider-Man, for one." He began to count off the examples on his fingers, keeping a straight face throughout it. "Peter Pettigrew betrayed his friend's family and allowed someone else to take the blame. Peter Simon denied Christ three times, making him a liar who on top of that basically bailed on his friend."

"All of those Peters are fictional," Peter replied smoothly, taking a sip of his wine. Stiles made a guess at the type: red, so maybe a Cabernet Sauvignon? (Allison's family were advocate wine drinkers, so she was always bringing home a new bottle for them to try.)

"Wait, are you implying that the Peter of the Bible wasn't real?"

"I couldn't care either way," Peter said, "I gave up the faith long ago." Stiles detected a hint of bitterness in that tone. He wanted to pry, but this was neither the time to delve into personal histories nor religious outlooks. The two subjects sometimes didn't mix well.

"Now it's your turn," Peter said, cutting into Stiles' thoughts. "Since you've so thoroughly judged my mother's preference for her son's name, how about I do you the same kindness?"

"Oh, right," Stiles said quickly. "It's Stiles."

"I meant your first name."

"Stiles is my first name," Stiles insisted.

Peter gave him a disbelieving look. "You expect me to believe that your parents named you that?"

"It's a nickname," Stiles remedied. "The real thing is Polish and unpronounceable. Only my mom could say it without stumbling over it like an idiot." Thinking about his mom made his chest tighten. After she died he refused to let anyone else say his name, even his own father.

This seemed to amuse Peter, who was now swiveling the remains of his wine in its glass. He polished it off neatly—Stiles was suddenly distracted by Peter's mouth, _fuck_—before setting the glass back on the counter.

"I like you Stiles," he said, giving him a hungry look. Stiles' face suddenly flushed red. He wanted to blame it on the alcohol and so not on the way Peter's hand had stealthily landed on Stiles' knee. Peter's eyes were concentrated on him, and Stiles couldn't handle those intense blues.

"I have to go," Stiles murmured. He reluctantly pulled away from Peter's hand, standing up next to his stool. Peter's eyebrows rose, but made no further comment.

"Thank you for the drinks," Stiles added hastily. He could feel Peter's eyes watching him as he exited the building, hoping that the cold air outside would cool off his searing skin.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles felt conflicted over his abrupt departure. On one hand, he was proud of himself for not jumping Peter's bones on the spot. The man was so gorgeous that it should've been illegal, and Stiles had fucked other people for less reason than that. On the other hand, that was the longest conversation he had ever had with a bar patron that didn't immediately dissolve into "So, your place or mine?" (Hint: he never took any of his partners back to his, Allison and Scott's place. That was their home, and he wasn't going to dirty it up with his sexual exploitations. Plus, it was better that these people knew as little about him as possible.) He enjoyed their banter, even though it had been so brief. The way he left was, frankly, very rude of him.

He then remembered Peter's hand on his knee, and his body would freeze up.

Confiding in Scott could sometimes be a hit-or-miss situation. The two have been best friends since kindergarten, so they knew everything about each other. Scott even knew Stiles' real name, but held back from ever using it out of respect.

Scott's reaction to Peter was wary at best. The huge age difference had his brow creasing in that Scott-like way when he worried. He nearly flipped when Stiles told him about Peter's subtle advances. "What if he was just trying to soften you up?" Scott said frantically. "I mean, the guy was like forty, right?"

"I wanna say closer to thirty-seven."

Scott sighed heavily. "Stiles," he asked, "Did you watch your drink the whole time?"

"It was in a sealed bottle," Stiles protested. He gave Scott's hands a firm squeeze. "I was careful, don't worry."

"Did you look away for a split second?"

_"Scott—"_

"Did you?" his friend insisted. Scott's voice raised an octave, and he was now making gasping little sounds. Stiles quickly reached behind him, grabbing Scott's inhaler from the side table. He handed it to Scott, who took a short spurt of the medicine.

Guilt roiled in Stiles' stomach. "I'm sorry," he said. Scott was always a nervous wreck when it came to Stiles' safety, and Stiles blamed his own carelessness from when they were fifteen.

Old habits die hard. Stiles wasn't the only one that had them.

"I know that the world's not all out to get you," Scott said, breaking into Stiles' thoughts. "But I keep having these what-if scenarios floating around in my head all the time. What if we slip up, and history repeats itself? What if I can't save you this time?"

Stiles leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together. Scott breathed deeply, threading their fingers together. This practice was common between the two when one of them felt like they were ready to fall apart. Touching each other was a reassurance. Besides their parents (one dead, the other a dead-beat), they were all they had growing up.

"Am I going to ruin the moment if I join in?"

Both Scott and Stiles looked up to see Allison giving them a small smile. She had left the room ten minutes earlier to get ready for bed, and was now in her soft pink pajamas. The boys broke apart, scooting over on the couch to make room for her. She took the empty space in between them and then gave Scott a quick kiss on the mouth. Her fingers began to card through Stiles' hair and he melted into the gesture. (Having someone else playing with your hair was the greatest feeling in the world, in Stiles' opinion.) Scott shot her an exasperated look that said, "He's not our cat, you know."

"You're home early," Allison said, gently scraping her nails across Stiles' scalp. "The way Scott was freaking out—"

"I wasn't freaking out," Scott protested.

"Totally freaking," Stiles hummed happily, shooting Scott a wicked grin.

"—I thought maybe the world had ended," Allison continued as if she had never been interrupted. "Did something happen?" she asked Stiles.

Stiles shrugged, trying to shake away the memory of how hot Peter's hand felt on his knee. If he hadn't balked, Stiles would've let his hand travel upward to his thigh, and probably more. He went red at the thought.

"This total creeper—" Scott began.

"This gentleman—" Stiles corrected, winking at Scott. Scott gave him a look before rolling his eyes. Allison, meanwhile, pursed her lips, a knowing twinkle in her eye.

"Honey, let Stiles tell the story before you go all knight-in-shining-armour on him," she said pleasantly. Scott huffed, but stayed silent as Stiles hastily went through the details of his evening. Allison hummed thoughtfully throughout all of it, mussing with his hair. It had a fully debauched look by the time she pulled out of the comforting gesture.

"It sounds like it holds some promise," she said, ignoring Scott's protesting look. "But he _is _older, so I want you to be careful if you do meet with him again."

"It's highly doubtful at this point," Stiles replied. "That I'll ever see him again, I mean. I probably didn't leave that great of an impression anyway. I mean, I left him with the fucking tab."

"You said that it was on him," Scott argued, jumping back in. "He offered to buy them, so you don't owe him a damn thing."

Allison sighed, giving Scott a pat on the cheek. "Honey…"

"But it's true!" Scott exclaimed. He looked over at Stiles, giving him his best puppy eyes. Stiles looked away; he couldn't resist that look when Scott used it on him.

"I wasn't going to argue with your point," Allison continued smoothly, "and we both know that Stiles has never felt obligated to meet up with former partners in the past. But if he wants to find this Peter again then we shouldn't discourage him. Do _you_ want to see him again?" she asked, looking at Stiles.

Stiles shrugged. He was on the outs for the time being. He felt bad about aborting their conversation so early, but Scott also had a point. He didn't owe Peter anything. Most of the time people will meet by chance, make a swift connection and never bother each other again. There was nothing wrong with that.

(Stiles' indifference did little to calm Scott's nerves.)

Sometimes Stiles felt like Scott and Allison were his parents, with Scott being the overprotective father who couldn't bear to see his little princess being interested in boys and dating. Allison was, obviously, the calmer and collected mother that thought through these dilemmas on a more rational note.

Finally, Allison managed to drag Scott off to bed before he wore himself out. Stiles went off to his room, closing the door before climbing into bed. He pulled the sheets up to his chin and willed his thundering heart to slow down.

* * *

A month went by, and Stiles avoided going back to Vernon's. Every other club and pick-up hot spot was still fair game, but Stiles just wasn't into it. One time he went the entire evening without chatting up a potential partner. She had been devastatingly gorgeous too; strawberry blonde with green eyes and full red lips that intimated every guy that tried to flirt with her. At one point she and Stiles shared a glance across the club. Stiles had merely smiled, gave her a quick nod and then returned to his drink. His heart was pounding, and he told himself that it was from the amount alcohol that he'd been consuming.

Stiles told himself that the incident with Peter had been nothing, but then his brain would fight against him with compelling arguments such as, _"If it was nothing, why are you avoiding that Vernon's like the plague?"_

Shut up brain.

_"Remember that V-neck? Holy shit, he was practically offering you a canvas to paint hickeys on!"_

Shut it.

_"He had gel in his hair! Just imagine that if you messed it up enough it would have no choice but to stay like that."_

Shut—

_"He would probably let you do it too. Yeah, he'd liked to look thoroughly fucked by you. Or is it the other way around, Stiles? He looks like the dominating type; he'd want you to beg for mercy."_

…Well, fuck.

* * *

One night Stiles arrived at Erica's apartment, bearing the gift of fresh sushi and bubble tea. Erica had upgraded from co-sharing with a roommate to living in her own place. The bedroom walls were a dusty rose color (he was well-acquainted with that shade now) with the rest of the apartment in soft burgundy and chocolate browns.

Stiles knocked, awkwardly holding the drink tray and food in one hand. Erica appeared at the door, her hair damp from a recent shower and wearing her black silk robe that Stiles had bought for her twenty-second birthday. She gave him a ravenous grin, and moved aside to let him in.

"Hey there stranger," she said, closing the door behind him. "Long time no see."

"It's been a while," Stiles agreed. Erica purred happily when she noticed the food and gave him a kiss on the cheek as a way of thank-you. She took it from his hands and he followed her into the living room.

The leather couches had been rearranged since the last time Stiles had been here. A brand new flat screen TV was perched on a stand in the corner of the room.

"How did you afford that?" Stiles asked, nodding at the TV. Erica grinned mischievously as she took a sip of her bubble tea. It was pineapple and banana, her favourite. "I got a new job playing secretary," she said, giving him a wink.

"Uh…" Stiles stammered, face flushing red.

Erica laughed before brushing her lips up against his. "An actual secretary, believe it or not."

"No, I do believe it," Stiles insisted. He knew how impeccably organized Erica could be. Everything in her apartment had its place. All of her magazines had its own special spot on her sleek bookshelf; her clothes were organized by category (casual, professional, intimate). It had the look of a pristine, top-notch lifestyle and Erica never let anyone forget it. Being a secretary made sense to him, though Erica certainly had the teeth to withhold a higher position if she wanted to.

Erica took out the sushi from the take-out bag while Stiles took a sip of his own drink. He had gotten a variety pack; Dynamite, Californian, and Alaska rolls to name a few. Erica was a sucker for anything with avocado and crab. Stiles hadn't been one for raw fish until Erica had introduced it to him four years ago. They ended up burning it all off with a rigorous round of sex. (Stiles felt exhausted just thinking about it.)

"So," Erica said, picking up a salmon roll with her chopsticks, "why the sudden visit?" She popped the roll into her mouth, chewing slowly before swallowing. She licked her lips slowly, carefully watching Stiles.

Stiles sighed, placing his drink on the coffee table in front of them. "Would it be crazy if I said that I missed you?"

Erica ruffled his hair. "Awww, am I the only one that can live up to your expectations?"

"Erica…" he groaned. He gave her an exasperated look. She laughed, trailing her fingers through his hair. He melted into her touch, which made it difficult to have a serious moment with her. She knew him too well. "I mean it; I missed you."

"And?" she asked sweetly, planting a kiss on his lips. Her fingers made their way down to his neck, casually sweeping across the pale skin before reaching his collarbone.

"And I need advice," Stiles admitted. Erica blinked, giving him a small frown. It was almost a thoughtful look, full of unexpected surprise. A large part of their relationship was physical, but it's not like they never talked or did other things together. But what Stiles was about to ask her was intimate in an entirely different way, and he was terrified.

Erica pulled back, and Stiles whined at the loss of contact. "What kind of advice?"

Stiles grimaced even before he said the words. "Relationship-wise?"

"Sweetie, I can't help you there," Erica said. "I've never had a serious relationship. I dated a boy for a month back in high school and that was it. It didn't mean much to either of us, so it was a bust." Erica threaded her fingers through Stiles', and gave them a gentle squeeze. "Did you meet someone?"

"Yes," Stiles said, "and no? I mean, it was for about ten minutes. He bought me my drinks."

"Ah," Erica hummed sarcastically, "the ultimate pick-up line." She grabbed her bubble tea and took a long sip from it before asking, "So, was he hot?"

Stiles' breath hitched. "To be honest, _holy Christ_. Yes, yes he was. He wore this V-neck—"

"I'm surprised you didn't fuck him right then and there," Erica sighed, as if she was disappointed by Stiles' self-restraint. "Lemme guess, a fancy drink without trying too hard?"

"Wine," Stiles replied.

Erica raised an eyebrow. "Oh my, what a cultured fellow."

"He saw some asshole harass me, and offered to break in his kneecaps."

"That's practically a marriage proposal right there," Erica giggled. "I bet he had the ring on his person when he said that."

Stiles ducked his head. His face was burning. "That was all a month ago, and I haven't seen him since. I didn't bother getting his number. I've been avoiding the bar that I met him in, and I don't know why. He didn't ask me out, but he touched me and I ran off. I don't know why, and it's driving me crazy. Allison always tells me to be true to myself and Scott—well, he's Scott. He'll go apeshit on anyone who'd hurt me." Stiles threw his free hand up in the air. "Fuck, I don't even know what I'm saying anymore."

"Well in my personal opinion," Erica said fondly, "I think you're infatuated."

"Infatuated?" Stiles repeated in disbelief. "No, I don't get infatuated with people. I get horny when someone gives me bedroom eyes. Like the ones you're giving me now," he added. He felt all of the blood in his body draining out of his veins and straight into his dick. Erica was smiling at him in that way that was only reserved for him. Her eyes were dark and lusty, and she tilted her head as she looked at him.

"I think you're falling for someone that you barely know," Erica said, kissing Stiles' throat. Stiles shivered as he undid her robe's drawstring. He pushed the silky material off of her shoulders, revealing her matching bra. Erica grinned against his neck. "You're a walking contradiction, Stilinski. You're avoiding this guy but you want to see him again? You're confusing yourself, sweetie." She shucked out of her robe completely, naked except for her lacy lingerie. Stiles' hands automatically reached for her sides. He ran his slender fingers down them and held her hips as she crawled into his lap.

His lips locked onto hers, and harsh, breathless kisses followed. Erica's hands found their way into Stiles' hair, and she tugged playfully at it. Stiles' head snapped back, and Erica resumed her attack on his neck with her mouth. She sucked and nibbled at the skin, causing a low moan to escape from Stiles.

"I am… confused," Stiles gasped out. His grip on her hips tightened. Erica began to grind down on his lap. One of her hands had slipped underneath his shirt, palming the small, muscular form that he had acquired over the years since meeting her. Stiles released her temporarily so that she could pull his shirt up over his head. "Because right now I don't feel guilty about what's going on right now."

"You know," Erica said breathily, "this doesn't count as adultery. Until he asks you out for coffee you're as free as a bird."

"You mean I'll still be yours," Stiles realized. He pushed Erica down on the couch, earning a high-pitched laugh from her. He hovered over her, bracketing her in with his arms as he pressed kisses onto her stomach.

"Of course," Erica replied, lifting her hips. Stiles slid her panties down her legs, throwing them over his shoulder. "I've grown attached, and I can get jealous like everyone else."

"Good," Stiles growled. He was leaning down again, spreading Erica's legs open. She lifted them up eagerly and hooked them over Stiles' shoulders. She placed a possessive hand on his head, shoving his face down into her pussy.

Her moans and pleading was pornographic as he sucked and licked. He added a finger, then a second, and finally a third before Erica screamed in delight and came into his mouth.

The sushi lay forgotten.

* * *

"I'm going to miss this," Stiles said, breathing heavily. The two of them had finally found their way into Erica's bed, now naked, strung out and thoroughly exhausted. The bed sheets were twisted and strewn out around them, reflecting the debauched state of the bed's occupants.

Erica was half on top of him, her breasts pressed against his chest from where she lay. She was lazily tracing spirals into his skin. "It doesn't have to end, you know."

Stiles gut twisted painfully. "But wouldn't that make you a… um…?"

"A mistress?" Erica finished quietly. "Nah, that's impossible, because I was here first." He could hear the small pout in her words, and he smiled weakly. "He doesn't have you yet."

Stiles ran his fingers through her long, blonde hair. "Maybe not ever," he said. "If he ever found out about the competition he would be scared shitless."

That earned him a playful bite on the ear. "That's right," she said smugly. Erica then whispered into his ear, "I'm sticky with sweat and come. Want to join me in the shower?"

Stiles' response was to roll on top of her and pepper her with kisses. She laughed in between them. "Geez, who's the dominant one now?"


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles stayed overnight. It wasn't unusual; he and Erica had engaged in many "sleepovers" in the past. He woke up to her kisses that lingered on his skin like little brands.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she said. She climbed on top of him, straddling his hips as she ran her fingers down his chest. Stiles captured her wrists and dragged her hands up to his face. He kissed each of her fingers before pulling himself up into a sitting position. Erica's wrists slid out of his grip easily. She twined her arms around his neck, drawing him into for a deep kiss.

"I'm not sure if I'm ready to give this up," Stiles said against her lips. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. Their bodies were slotted together in that perfect formation that he could only do with her.

"You don't have to," she said gently, running her fingers through his hair. Stiles sighed, and rested his forehead against her shoulder.

Their relationship had been going on for five years now and for some reason they weren't sick of seeing each other. Stiles felt at ease in her presence, and she took in all of his fears, thoughts, ideas and urges. He did the same for her. If he were an idealistic person, he would say that he was in love with her.

But he had learned long ago that he and Erica could never develop that type of romantic intimacy with one another, even though it seemed so easy and effortless. Stiles had watched Scott and Allison every step of the way in their own happily-ever-after, and wanted to cry about how natural it seemed to them. It looked so simple, especially when they said, "I love you."

Stiles remembered when he was nineteen; it had been a year since he and Erica started having regular sex with each other. His chest felt tight and he could barely breathe. He knew Erica didn't want anything concrete. She was a singing bird that refused to have her wings clipped for anything, and he respected that about her. It's what made her so amazing in the first place. He wasn't sure what he wanted to confess to her that night, but Erica seemed to understand as he stood there at her front door, soaking wet from the thunderstorm outside. She had led him in and dried him off, giving him his spare clothes that he kept in her bottom drawer. She kissed his tears away and they lay in her bed all night, under the covers and fully dressed for once. Stiles had cried his heart out into her chest as she petted his hair.

"Stiles?" Erica said, breaking into his thoughts. Stiles looked up at her; his eyes were stinging.

"I love you," he sobbed. Tears streaked down his face and rolled off his chin.

Erica cupped his face, brushing them away with her thumbs. She gave him a sad smile. "I know," she replied softly. She kissed him deeply as she slowly pushed him down into the pillows.

That morning was quiet compared to the rest. Their voices were robbed of their usual, frantic moans and the air of the sound of their thrashing bodies. Stiles kissed Erica desperately, the sobs building up in his throat until he couldn't breathe and they turned into crying hiccups. Erica guided him with soft touches and angelic patience, sighing with content as he entered her. Her eyes were glistening as she stared up at him, digging her fingers into his hair.

"Come on," she whispered, gasping into his ear. "Give them a good squeeze."

Stiles did; he wasn't that awkward teenage virgin anymore. Erica's breasts were soft and warm, just like the heart she carefully tucked away when she needed to be fiercer and playful.

They'd always fucked like horny animals. It had always been their way. It was easier giving in to their physical wants rather than their emotional needs.

This was the first time that they made love.

Being torn in half would hurt less than leaving Erica's apartment. Stiles stood at the open doo, smelling of sex and her lingering perfume. He hesitated; his legs refused to move. Erica was wearing her robe. Her hair was tousled in that frenzied way that only his fingers could achieve.

"Erica—" he began, but she stifled his words with a single finger to his lips.

"Go," she said, smiling sadly. "Go find your man. You don't need…" She ducked her head. She dragged her finger off of his bottom lip before looking up at him again. "Well, if you _still_ need me, I'll be—"

Stiles surged forward, crushing his mouth against hers. Her arms twined around his neck, pulling him close. He held her hips, tightening his grip when her tongue breached his mouth. He wanted her to wrap her legs around his waist and then press her against the wall. He wanted to touch her in every way imaginable. Stiles wanted to taste her come and fuck her until she screamed with pleasure.

Instead, they kissed. They stayed like that for five minutes before Stiles finally drew away from her and out her door.

* * *

"Hey," Scott said when Stiles walked through their front door later that morning. Scott was sitting on the couch, rechecking his upcoming fall schedule for the university. His smile faltered when he saw the look on Stiles' face. He jumped out of his seat, nearly tripping over himself to reach his friend. "What's wrong, what happened?"

Stiles took in a deep, shuddering breath. It was hard getting the air to stay in his lungs long enough to sound coherent. "Erica and I," he finally choked out, "we… We broke up."

Scott gave him a confused look, his brow crinkling in worry as Stiles' face crumpled into silent sobs. Scott stepped forward and drew him into a hug.

"I ruined it," Stiles confessed miserably. "I said those words and I ruined it."

Scott didn't need reminding on what words Stiles was talking about. He held him tighter and only let go once Stiles had calmed down somewhat.

* * *

It took another two weeks before Stiles could stand to return to Vernon's. He felt like he was cheapening whatever it was he had with Erica by even daring to seek out the man that caused his emotions so much whiplash. But there he was, ordering the cheapest beer that the place had to offer.

"It's been a while," Vernon said, sliding the bottle over to Stiles. It was his third one that evening. At least, he _thinks_ it was. "I was worried that you found another hang-out."

"None of them appealed to me," Stiles replied, staring at his drink. He picked it up and retreated to the back corner of the bar, settling himself into an empty booth. He pulled out his phone and scrawled through his contacts. Erica's number was under the C's. Sighing, he placed the phone down on the table, covering the screen with his palm.

"You look troubled."

Stiles looked up and felt his face grow hot. Peter was sitting across from him, giving him a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Shit, you scared me," Stiles muttered. He noticed Peter eyeing his hand. He tried to pull his phone out of eyesight, but Peter was too quick for him. He grabbed Stiles' wrist, lifting his arm off the table before grabbing the phone with his free hand.

"Hey—" Stiles protested weakly. Peter looked at the screen and rolled his eyes. He tapped in something and then handed it back to Stiles.

"Catwoman, really?" Peter said, huffing out a short laugh. "Judging by that nickname, he or she must be quite feisty."

"None of your fucking business," Stiles growled out.

Peter raised an eyebrow. He looked more amused than insulted. "You're touchier than I remember," he said. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"It's all your fault," Stiles slurred. "I had to abandon my favourite drink—drink-serving place for six weeks because of you."

"How did I do that?" Peter said calmly. One of the waitresses had come over, smiling at the older man as she jotted down his order. Stiles watched him, the irrational anger building up in his chest. Once the girl had left, Stiles continued.

"Your stupid V-neck, for one," he told him. "And your hair. Nobody's hair should look that great at your stupid old age."

Peter cocked his head. His eyes were scanning Stiles' face. "Oh? How old am I that my hair is unacceptable to society's standards?"

"Fifty," Stiles spat out. "Because you're a liar."

"Ah," Peter sighed, "We've returned to that particular discussion."

"You also said you liked me, and then you never called."

"How was I supposed to contact you without your number? You left so suddenly that you didn't give me the chance to request it."

Stiles placed his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands. He glared at Peter, as if it was his fault that Stiles had forgotten to give him his digits. Peter was giving him that same hungry look from their first encounter and it made Stiles' insides squirm. "Well, it's still your fault," Stiles accused. "You're getting up there in your old man age and you forgot to ask."

Peter laughed softly. "Yes, it must be my age that's caused all of this. I'll be suffering from all of the elderly diseases by the time I'm forty. The lifespan of humanity seems to have decreased dramatically since the last time we spoke."

The waitress had returned with Peter's wine, and sweetly asked Stiles if he needed anything. She looked shocked when Stiles told her, "Some Viagra for this pervert here."

"He's joking," Peter reassured her, slipping her a twenty. "Keep that; it's an apology on his behalf." The waitress walked away in a hurry.

"So you're bribing the staff now?" Stiles said. "Are you going to pay them all off to look the other way while you have your way with me?"

Peter gives him a concerned look. "Stiles, how much have you had to drink?"

"I haven't been cut off yet, which is a good sign," Stiles said grouchily. He felt his eyelids sagging. He placed his head in his arms on the table, suddenly feeling tired. He felt Peter's hand touching his head.

"Let me take you home."

"I need to pay my tab."

"I'll take care of it."

"Of course you will."

* * *

Peter drove them to the convenience store close by, and told Stiles to wait in the car before he went in. He returned five minutes later, handing Stiles a bottle of water and aspirin. Stiles stared at the items. He looked over at Peter, who sat in the driver's seat. He was tapping the steering wheel, watching Stiles with a piercing stare.

"Why are you doing this?" Stiles asked.

Peter sighed heavily. "You're wasted, Stiles. Water will help dilute the alcohol in your system, and you're going to have a terrible headache once your hangover kicks in in the morning."

Stiles' fingers trembled when he tried screwing the top off of the water. Peter gently took it from his hands and did it for him. Even as something as mundane as opening a bottle made the guy look fucking flawless. Stiles took it back from him and chugged down half of the liquid inside.

"Slow down," Peter ordered. Stiles did the opposite out of the weird spite that he was feeling. (Nobody's actions while they were drunk never made sense.) He finished off the water, slowly opened the door, and got out. He walked about ten feet before falling to his knees and emptying the contents of his stomach.

He felt Peter's hand on his back rubbing soothing circles. "I told you to slow down."

"Whatever, jerk-face," Stiles said between his dry heaving. His throat felt raw and burning once he was finished vomiting all over the ground.

Peter stayed silent, his hand steady and firm on Stiles. "Got everything out of you? Good," he added when Stiles nodded weakly. "We wouldn't want you getting sick in the car."

"Are you afraid that I'll ruin your precious exterior or something?"

Peter laughed softly. "That's a small part of it, but I'm mostly worried about you."

"Why do you care?" Stiles asked wearily. His voice was robbed of its earlier venom. He felt exhausted and he wanted to get the taste of regurgitated alcohol out of his mouth. "We barely know each other."

"Don't we all start out as strangers?" Peter said. He held out his hand. Stiles stared at it suspiciously, but then finally took it. Peter lifted him to his feet. "All it takes is a spark of conversation for two strangers to become acquaintances and then, hopefully, friends."

"Ooh, someone's all fucking philosophical tonight."

"I'm not sure how that qualifies as being 'philosophical'."

Stiles rolled his eyes. He was still holding Peter's hand. He blushed, and pulled away from him. "Whatever. I'm too tired to tolerate your dickery tonight."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Your face is ridiculous."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Get back in the car." Stiles didn't bother arguing at this point. All he wanted was to sleep.

* * *

Stiles may have been drunk, but not all of his wits had abandoned him. He refused to tell Peter his address but rather gave him a street that was five blocks away from the Stilinski-Argent-McCall apartment. Peter raised an eyebrow when Stiles told him to stop in front of the Wal-Mart. He merely shrugged and drove into the empty parking lot. It was now close to two in the morning.

"This doesn't look like a house," Peter said as Stiles struggled to get the seatbelt unclipped.

"Who said I lived in a _house_?" Stiles countered. He managed to free himself from his restraints and was about to barrel out the door when Peter's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

"Stiles," he said calmly, "Where do you live?"

"Not here, obviously," Stiles gritted out. "I can't just give out my address to everyone, you know?"

Peter frowned. He continued to grip Stiles' wrist and Stiles was suddenly aware of his thumb brushing against his pulse. He made his heart pound like a jackhammer inside of his chest.

"Are you homeless?" Peter asked suddenly.

Well, that came out of nowhere. Stiles blinked, alarmed and flustered at the bizarre question. "What, no! Of course not! And can you let go of me?" he added, trying to jerk out of Peter's grip. The older man refused to give an inch. He continued to stare at Stiles with that calm intensity in his eyes.

"You refuse to let me drive you to the place you're staying at," Peter continued, as if Stiles had never spoken. "Whenever I see you you're alone at the bar."

"That doesn't prove that I'm homeless!" Stiles protested.

"Are you trying to avoid a bad situation at home then?" Peter asked. "Are you ashamed of where you live?"

"What are you, a social worker?! Why do you fucking care?!"

"Stiles—"

"I just don't like bringing people back to our place, alright?!" Stiles finally blurted out. "It's not just my place; it's Scotty and Ally's place too!" He felt the tears coming, so he used his free hand to wipe at his eyes. "I don't want my dirty sex life ruining our haven so no; I'm not giving you my fucking address!"

He couldn't believe that he had confessed that out loud.

Only Erica—it still hurt to think about her, _fuck_—had ever visited, but only after Stiles explicitly told her that no, he wasn't ashamed of her or anything, but he wanted to respect Scott and Allison in the only way he knew how. It was a complicated fear, but she had somehow understood where he was coming from.

He felt Peter slowly pulling away, his fingers trailing off his arm in a way that made Stiles shiver. "You know, we haven't had sex, so technically you wouldn't be breaking your own rule."

"We haven't had sex _yet_," Stiles corrected bitterly. He slapped a hand over his mouth. He couldn't believe that he had just blurted it out. Oh fuck, what had he done? He shouldn't have said anything; he should've gotten out of the car—

Peter huffed out a small, short laugh. "Just tell me where you live before I have to swindle it out of you. I promise that I'll just drop you off at the front door. I'll even stay in the car."

Stiles was silent as he thought this over. He didn't want to give any leeway; his drunken defensiveness made it difficult to lower his barriers. But the proposal that Peter was offering would allow Stiles to get home quickly and safely without breaking his own personal rule.

"You promise that you'll stay in the car?"

"It's a bit late to invite someone in for coffee."

Stiles sighed, defeated. "Fine," he said. "But if you make one move to get out and I'll never speak to you again."

"My, my, how childish," Peter chuckled. Stiles rattled off the street address, which Peter punched into his GPS. It was installed into the actual vehicle, and Stiles vaguely wondered about where Peter worked to afford such a luxury. He _did_ give that waitress a crisp twenty like it was nickels and dimes to him.

It didn't take long for Peter to roll up in front of the apartment building that the trio lived in. It was an acceptable living space for poor students like themselves, but it wasn't like it was in a destitute, condemned area either. Allison's mother insisted that her daughter lived in a safe, family-friendly neighbourhood. It was the only way for her to shut up about Allison living with a pair of penises. Stiles had once jokingly said that he was "half-gay", but Mrs. Argent didn't seemed amused.

"Charming little area," Peter mused. Stiles wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or not. He was too tired to care or come up with a witty retort.

"I'm going to regret everything that I've said tonight," Stiles said. "My head's a mess, and I still blame you for it."

Peter sighed. "Of course you will. That's what makes you so amusing."

"Well don't get used to it," Stiles muttered. "You'll never see me again, even if you wanted to."

"But I do," Peter replied. He reached over, tracing two fingers down Stiles' cheek. "I don't want to give this up quite yet."

Stiles stared at him. "You must be insane. I treated you like shit—"

"I'm sure you had a reason for lashing out at me tonight," Peter interrupted. His hand cupped the side of Stiles' face and slowly turned it to face him. Peter's eyes were that piercing, violent blue, the same intensity that had caught Stiles' intrigue in the first place. Well, there was also that evil V-neck, but his eyes were a close second.

"Yeah, a little," Stiles confessed.

Peter smiled, and Stiles couldn't believe how gentle it looked. "What was her name?"

"What?" Stiles breathed out.

"What was her name?" Peter repeated. "I could tell that heartbreak had a factor in on your actions tonight. Was it your Catwoman?"

"I don't know what you're—"

"You don't have to lie to me, Stiles," Peter said softly. "We've all been there. Before I sat down at your table I saw that lost look in your eyes, like you couldn't believe that it was over. It must've been long-term. It was clear that you cared about her; you rejected that little cretin and left so suddenly the first time we met."

"It was complicated," Stiles said, "and I don't want to explain it to you. We're over, and that's that." He finally pulled away from Peter's touch, opened the door and stumbled out.

He was about to close the door shut just as Peter asked, "Did you break up because of me?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Stiles hissed, but he felt the guilt burning in his chest all the same. "Goodnight, and thanks for the ride." He slammed the door shut.

Peter didn't pull away until Stiles was inside and buzzing himself in. He felt numb as he took the elevator up to his floor, where Allison and Scott were.

He was screwing up everything and he wanted to cry.


	4. Chapter 4

That summer was anything but uneventful.

The morning after Stiles' second encounter with Peter was the first of July. It was blazing hot outside, even though it was still morning. The sun streamed through the cracks in his blinds, which felt like a blast from a solar flare that pierced through his retinas. Stiles groaned, turning over in his bed.

Stiles dreaded what the afternoon would be like. He felt pity for poor Allison, who was beginning her first day volunteering at the archery camp outside of town. He hoped that she packed enough sunscreen and electrolytes to get through the day.

Getting up was like trying to climb a mountain while battling hurricanes were on either side of you damaging your progress. Stiles' head was throbbing painfully. He reached out from under the covers, and his fingers grappled with the aspirin bottle. He vaguely wondered at where he got it before he remembered Peter handing it to him last night. His stomach twisted with something other than guilt, and then he was racing for the bathroom and dry heaving into the toilet.

The world spun around him; his legs felt like jelly. "Scott," Stiles moaned out, hands clutching the rim of the toilet bowl. "Scotty, are you home?"

Of course he wasn't; he was working at the vet's today.

Stiles sighed and began to crawl over to the bathtub. Water gushed from the tap as he turned the knobs. All he wanted right now was a nice, hot soak before Scott got home. He needed to get refreshed and hide the fact that he got shitfaced at the bar last night. It might not fool Scott, but at least they could pretend that Stiles' emotions weren't all over the place for once.

The water felt fantastic as Stiles lowered himself into the tub. He turned off the taps once the tub was halfway filled and settled his body enough that the water was lapping across his chin. He closed his eyes, willing his body to unwind and relax the stiff muscles from the way he'd slept.

He knew that he was going to regret having a hot bath on a day like this, but his brain and body didn't care at this particular moment. Stiles zoned out, his mind filling with white noise and lackluster thoughts.

His body continued to sink minutely beneath the water until his back was hitting the bottom of the tub and his head was full submerged. He held his breath in for a good thirty seconds before allowing a stream of air bubbled to escape from his lips.

_"Are you going to be in there all day?" Erica asked, sighing. Her hand trailed the top of the water, her fingers brushing Stiles' chest. She was sitting on the edge of her grand cream-colored tub, watching Stiles soaking in it. It was large enough for three grown men to fit in it comfortably side by side and had golden knobs and tap. This was one of the few perks that had convinced Erica in upgrading to her new apartment. The lack of a snappish roommate complaining about the noise was another._

_"I'm thinking about it," Stiles hummed happily. "This feels fucking fantastic." He pulled himself into a sitting position, grinning at her. Erica rolled her eyes, pouting her bright red lips at him. A devious thought came to him, and he smirked. Stiles suddenly wrapped his arms around Erica's waist, and she screamed loudly as he dragged her into the tub. Water splashed over the sides of the tub as Erica's legs kicked out. _

_"Stiles!" she shrieked, but there was laughter on her lips. Stiles swallowed it whole, moaning in her mouth. Erica broke it apart, flicking Stiles' ear. "Stiles, I'm soaking wet," she whined, gesturing at her dress. It was a strapless mini, white with a hint of lace at the bottom. Stiles could see through it now, and noticed how she wasn't wearing a bra or panties._

_"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," he said sarcastically. He kissed her throat as his hands snaked their way up her back, dragging down the zipper located there. Erica twisted her body around so that she was straddling him. Her dress fell free, and the damp material was nestled around her hips._

_"Oh, you will be sorry," she whispered into his ear. She scraped her nails down Stiles' chest and smirked when he shivered. "Because tonight, you'll be my little bitch. You know what that means, right sweetie?" Stiles nodded furiously as she stroked his cock. When she kissed him again it was with a fiery tongue, quick and precise as licked the inside of his mouth. Stiles felt himself go hard._

_"But I'll be kind," she continued as she reached up and dragged her nails through his wet hair. She pulled him closer, pressing his face into her breasts as she said breathily, "I'll let you choose the strap-on that I'll be using on your ass."_

Stiles nearly spring-boarded right out of the bath as he broke through the watery surface, gasping for air. He ran his hands over his face, trying to force down that particular memory. Not that it had been bad; it was utterly fantastic and one of his favourites about Erica. 

_We weren't meant to be, _Stiles desperately told himself. It was the same words that he'd been repeating in his head for the past two weeks, but the argument was getting weak and muddled. He still woke up from dreams about her, his sheets sticky with come and sweat.

Stiles pulled out the plug and stumbled out of the bath, listening to the water gurgle down the drain as he toweled himself off.

He needed to get out of the apartment.

* * *

Leaving the shelter of his home was increasingly becoming a bad fucking idea. Within seconds of stepping outside Stiles was sweltering from the heat and was squinting from the intense brightness. He shielded his eyes with his hand as he made his way over to the parking lot. It took him a moment to remember that he didn't drive home last night.

His Jeep was still at Vernon's. Well, _fuck_.

There was no way that Stiles would be able to walk all the way to the bar without suffering heatstroke. It had to be about twenty minutes away by vehicle at least and nobody was home to give him a lift. Sighing, Stiles pulled out his phone and quickly scrawled through his contacts. He found himself hesitating in the C's before flicking by them.

He frowned when he reached the P's and found a single name underneath it: _Peter_. "What the fu—?" Stiles muttered, staring at the screen. When the hell did he get his number?

Then Stiles remembered Peter taking his phone the night before. _Of course he would,_ he thought, scoffing. His thumb hovered over the 'Call' button, weighing his decisions. On the one hand, Peter was the only guy that he knew that A) had his own ride B) was in town, and C) probably wasn't working at the moment. But on the other hand, Stiles still felt mildly embarrassed about his drunken state from the night before. He didn't want to be one of those people that spewed verbal abuse and then beg for a favour right afterward.

Peter had said that he had wanted to see Stiles again. Stiles remembered the way Peter had touched his face. He flushed at the memory.

He tapped down on 'Call' before pressing his phone to his ear. The phone rang twice before Peter picked up. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's me," Stiles said. "Uh, it's Stiles, in case you forgot. Wait, this is the right number, right? This is Peter No-Last-Name-Given, right?"

"Speaking," Peter replied coolly.

"Thank God," Stiles breathed out. "Because you drove me home last night—"

"I am aware of that," said Peter. He sounded amused rather than annoyed. That was a good sign. "I recall being behind the wheel."

"Ha ha, you're hilarious," Stiles muttered. He mentally slapped himself for that snark. It was hard to _not_ act like an asshole, but this time he really had to rein himself in if he wanted to remain on Peter's good side. "Yeah, you drove me home but in the process I left my Jeep back at the bar's parking lot. I kind of need it if I'm going to get around town, you know?"

"Have you called a taxi?"

Shit, Stiles didn't think of that. "I'm not made out of money, you know. I only have plastic, and a taxi requires hard, cold cash in order to use their services. Same for the bus, before you ask."

Stiles heard the rustling of paper coming from Peter's end. "Walking won't kill you. You know that right?"

"Uh, right," Stiles replied, "but the sun is threatening to cause a massive solar flare with the heat it's giving off. I'm no Thomas; I won't survive it."

"Going off of that roundabout wording, I'm assuming that you're asking me for a ride over there?"

Stiles shoulders slumped in defeat. He could feel the sweat pooling in his shoes and dripping down his neck. "Yeah, kind of."

Peter laughed softly. It was a nice laugh. "I just have to make a quick call and then I'll be over."

* * *

Stiles closed his eyes once he'd clambered into Peter's car, allowing the air conditioning to wash right over him. The sudden cold dried off his sweat-slick skin and instantly revived him. Peter was watching him, his left hand at eleven o'clock on the steering wheel. Stiles could feel his eyes on him; it felt like a pair of lasers hitting the side of his face.

"Seatbelt."

Stiles blinked, now looking at Peter. "What?"

Peter sighed. "Seatbelt. Please buckle yourself in. I would prefer that you don't smash through my windshield if I have to make a sudden stop."

"Oh right," Stiles said as he hastily strapped himself in. "Safety first and shit."

Peter huffed softly as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. "You seem out of it."

"Well _yeah_," Stiles muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. "I got shitfaced last night and I'm still feeling the effects. Not like you would know what that's like, Mr. Fancy Wine Drinker."

"Are we giving each other pet names now?" Peter asked. He gave Stiles a sly smile. "If that's the case, shall I give you one?"

"I would prefer if you didn't," Stiles replied. "You'd probably come up with something weird or symbolic or… or _mean_ and stuff."

"You have quite the way with words," Peter said.

"Shut up, I'm not one hundred percent myself right now," Stiles grumbled. He felt heat creeping up his neck. Peter smiled at him before returning his attention back to the road.

The car rolled to a stop at the red light of an intersection. Stiles continued to stare straight on ahead. He wanted to look over; he wanted to see Peter's face and try to pinpoint his reactions. He wanted to know if Peter was just being polite or genuinely wanted to help Stiles out, in spite of what happened last night. But he felt like if he even glanced at him he'd lose at his ongoing battle of self-control.

He would never stop looking. Stiles knew that.

"We're here."

Stiles blinked rapidly. They were in the Vernon's parking lot. He had never noticed the light turning green, much less the rest of the drive.

"I believe this is your stop," Peter said. He was resting his wrists on the top of the wheel and was giving Stiles one of his half-smiles. Stiles only dared to look at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Awesome," he replied.

Silence fell between them. Stiles began drumming his knees with his fingers. Peter's eyes were fixed on him, his body motionless. "Are you going to get out?" he asked.

Stiles started, his hands reaching for the seatbelt buckle. "Oh shit, yeah!" he said hurriedly. His fingers were jittery and struggling with the button. "Shit…"

"Do you need help?" Peter asked.

Before Stiles could answer Peter was leaning into his personal space. Stiles nearly jumped, pressing his body into the door but Peter's face was edging closer to his own. Stiles tried averting his gaze by watching Peter out of the corner of his eye to avoid the other man's intensive blue ones. Unfortunately they were like magnets, and so Stiles slowly turned his head. Peter's eyes were fixed on Stiles' face, staring at him with such weird precision. Peter's gazed flickered down to Stiles' lips ever so briefly before looking back at him. Stiles felt Peter's hand on his, their mouths now a breath apart.

_Click._

The pressure from the seatbelt lifted as it came undone. Stiles held in a breath as Peter pulled back, his fingers grazing Stiles' knuckles before dragging them off entirely.

"You better go get your car now," he whispered.

Stiles nodded furiously. It only took him one try to swing the door open and to clamber out. He slammed the door shut, giving Peter a look before turning around and heading to his Jeep that was parked near the entrance of Vernon's. When he looked back Peter's car was gone.

* * *

Stiles wasted time driving around town, vaguely wondering whether they needed more milk or some other mundane set of groceries. He daydreamed about the superior air conditioner in Peter's car and wondered how much he had to pay to get an advanced vehicle like that. It was certainly no run-of-the-mill station wagon that they fast-produced in the States.

Scott was there when Stiles returned to the apartment in the early afternoon. He was sitting on their couch, legs crossed and peering down into his hands. He jumped out of his seat when Stiles opened the door, but calmed down once he realized that it was just him.

"Dude, you looked like a deer caught in headlights," Stiles joked. He sobered up once he saw the look on Scott's face. "Hey, what's wrong?"

That's when he noticed Scott cradling something small to his chest. Both of his hands were holding it, blocking it from Stiles' view.

"Scott," he asked slowly, "what do you have there?"

Scott gave him a small smile. "I thought you were Allison for a second."

Stiles eyes widened as the sudden realization struck him. "Holy shit, you didn't." He couldn't help but grin at Scott's quick nod. He brought his hands away from his chest and showed him the little black box cupped there.

"I did," replied Scott, returning Stiles' grin.

Stiles surged forward, wrapping his arms around Scott. He pressed his face into Scott's neck, squeezing him just enough that it didn't cause a random asthma attack. Scott returned the embrace and Stiles felt the ring box poke his lower back.

"How much did that cost?" Stiles asked once they broke apart.

"A month's worth of paychecks, maybe more."

"When are you going to ask her?"

"This Saturday. I reserved a table months ago at that restaurant she likes," replied Scott. His face had taken on a dream-like quality, all smiles and happiness wafting off of him. Stiles could practically feel his inner sunshine radiating off of his skin.

"I'm so happy for you," Stiles said, and he meant it. Nobody deserves a happy ending more than Allison and Scott. Stiles was always surprised that Scott didn't propose to her the day he met her. "So you're not going to wait another two months for your anniversary?"

"Heh, I'm not going to be predictable," Scott said happily.

"For once in your life," Stiles added, earning him a friendly smack on the arm.

Scott pocketed the box. "So where were you?" he asked suddenly. When Stiles frowned, Scott added, "I found the towels on the floor in the bathroom, so I assume that you were in a hurry?"

"Shit, sorry," Stiles muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I completely forgot them."

"Hey, it's no big deal," Scott said quickly. "It's just towels."

"I just had to go get my Jeep," Stiles explained. "I left it at the bar last night."

Scott frowned. "Did you take a taxi home?"

"You know that I never carry cash with me."

"Then how did you get home?"

Jesus, how did they go from Scott's proposal plans to Stiles' night life? "It's no big deal," Stiles insisted. "Someone gave me a ride and dropped me off."

"Stiles…"

"Don't worry, it wasn't some sketchy stranger, I swear."

Scott was quiet for a moment, thinking. Stiles was beginning to feel nervous, which was a ridiculous feeling because why could should he feel nervous? It was just Scott being his usual worried self.

"Was it that guy?" Scott asked. "What's his name, Peter?"

Stiles sighed and rolled his eyes, but ceased once his saw Scott's puppy eyes giving him the Look. "Yeah," he admitted. "Yeah, it was. But all he did was pay for the drinks and drove me home."

"He didn't touch you?"

"I swear to God that I remember everything that happened and _no_, he didn't touch me," Stile said shortly. "I'm not that easy."

Scott winced. "I never said you were," he mumbled quietly.

"I'm sorry," Stiles said. He hugged Scott, holding him tight as he talked into his shoulder. "I know you get worried all the time, and you wouldn't be you if you didn't. But please let him handle this one by myself and focus on yourself this time." He drew back, and smiled weakly at his best friend. "You're going to propose to the greatest girl on earth, man! You're gonna get engaged—I highly doubt that she's gonna dump you now, it's been almost five fucking years—and I'm gonna be your best man and there'll be no open bar because that'd be ridiculous knowing me. It's going to so awesome that even Ally's scary-ass mother will enjoy herself!" Stiles then cupped Scott's face and planted a kiss on his forehead and then another one on Scott's lips.

"I'll handle my own shit," Stiles said, drawing back. He wanted to laugh at Scott's stunned look. It had been years since they had kissed each other. It had been back in their high school years when Scott wanted to practice before asking Mandy Wendel out. Those quick little pecks had soon turned into full-blown make-out sessions. Very clingy and needy on both their parts, with Mandy soon forgotten. Scott never did ask her out, making Allison his sole girlfriend.

"I'm always interrupting something juicy," sighed Allison as she walked through the door. She smiled at the boys as she toed off her sneakers, dirty from a day from helping kids with their archery. Scott quickly patted his pocket containing the ring box, hissing out a sigh of relief. He pulled away from Stiles, and walked over to give Allison a kiss.

"I'll be right back," he told her, heading to their bedroom. Allison raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking with a smile. "And how was your day, Stiles? Do anything exciting before macking on my man?"

"Aww, do you feel left out?" Stiles teased.

Allison shook her head, still smiling. "I heard you coming in last night. Did you meet up with anyone?"

"Geez, everyone around here wants to make it all about me."

"Only because we care," Allison replied. She gave Stiles a quick kiss on the lips. "There, now we're even." Before he could say anything, she handed him a cream-colored envelope. "This was tucked underneath your wiper on your Jeep," she said. She did a half-twirl as she entered the kitchen. "I didn't read it, but I think it's very cute."

"Ha ha," Stiles said sarcastically. Once Allison was out of his view he tore open the top of the envelope and fished out its contents. It was a check for one hundred dollars, followed by a note written in elegant cursive.

_'Now you'll have enough to cover the tab for us next time. I believe that Saturday would be the appropriate evening to relieve yourself of those funds.'_

Stiles didn't need to see the signature to know who it was from.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles' first instinct was to phone Erica, but his thumb hovered hesitantly over her number. He swallowed before backing out of his Contacts list and reread the note to make sure he hadn't hallucinated it.

What perfect timing; Scott and Allison would be on their big date that Saturday, so having plans meant he wouldn't be hanging around the apartment like a lonely cat. He had been planning to make himself scarce for that night anyway in order to give the couple the sexy alone time that they would need. Stiles tried not to think about engagement sex, but he assumed that it would be goddamn _feisty_.

Stiles didn't know how to react the first time Scott came back to their dorm room nearly five years ago one Saturday morning, all red-faced and goofy smiles. Stiles had immediately put together Allison and "her roommate was out at a party" so quickly that it was a little creepy. "I'm pretty certain that we're officially together now," Scott had said.

Pride in his best-friend-like-a-brother for finally getting laid was definitely one emotion he felt, but then Stiles felt weird in a way for objectifying Allison as a well-earned prize. (Erica had rubbed off on him in such an eye-widening way by that time.) Happiness was the second emotion, because Stiles really liked Allison. She didn't scorn him the way the girls in high school had, and had always made sure to include him in any non-date activities. (She had actually watched _Star Wars_ unlike Scott and had shown Stiles a picture of her dressed as Princess Leia for Halloween from a few years back. "She's the one!" Stiles had told Scott, with Scott rolling his eyes whilst Allison laughed.)

The third emotion was a random allotment of horniness. As in, Stiles wanted to shove Scott against the wall and shove his tongue down his throat. He instead congratulated Scott, giving him a bro hug before texting Erica an S.O.S. They ended up having rigorous morning sex at her place where her annoying roommate was greeted with the sight of Stiles face-deep in Erica's pussy as she was coming through the front door.

Stiles shoved his phone into his pocket as he stared at the cheque. He definitely needed to get out for one night. Maybe whatever was forming between him and Peter could actually morph itself into something. A distraction would be good, for starters.

* * *

The next four days stretched into a mindless droll. Stiles went to work, coming back in the evenings to help Allison and Scott prepare dinner. He had Friday off, where he spent countless hours reading online articles about the earliest mental institutions and how to make the perfect glass of orange juice. When he got bored with that Stiles took the grocery list off the fridge and went out shopping for food. Allison came home and was greeted with cupboards filled with dry goods and her favourite cereal. She beamed at Stiles and hugged Scott when he came back with a somber look on his face. He had to help put down a dog at the vet today whose condition had been worsening for the past month with no signs of recovery.

Friday then passed over into Saturday, and Stiles still hadn't cashed the cheque in. It was crumpled up on his desk next to his wallet. Stiles stared at it as he pulled a clean shirt over his head, thinking about how nice it would be to flash a fan of green instead of cards for once.

Stiles picked up the cheque and quickly stuffed it into his pocket. "What am I doing?" he wondered out loud. Seriously, all he got was a vague note that didn't exactly say _what_ he was supposed to do with the money. Peter didn't even give him a time or a meet-up place. His stomach churned at the thought of letting Peter into the apartment. He could see the scrutinizing look that Scott would give him and the passive-aggressive questions he would ask.

No, he wasn't going to step into their home, no matter how charming he was. At least, not until Stiles knew him fully.

Erica—well, she had always been the exception.

It would be best to rip off the Band-Aid in one fell swoop. Stiles grabbed his phone and dialled Peter's number. He picked up on the second ring.

"You should've waited a couple more rings," Stiles greeted sarcastically. "It won't make you look so desperate."

"Good morning to you too," Peter replied dryly. "Is there a reason for disturbing me at this hour?"

"Dude, it's fucking ten, get over it," Stiles said back, smirking a little. "Besides, it is _you_ that's been disturbing _me_." He gestured at his pocket wildly, even though Peter couldn't see it or its contents.

"Do you always play the victim or only when you're drunk?" Peter asked.

"You're hilarious," Stiles said flatly. "So what possessed you to write me out a cheque anyway? It's been glaring at me all week!"

"You do know that a cheque is meant to be cashed in, right?" Peter told him. "I thought that you would at least understand that."

"I get that, but _why?"_ Stiles whined. He pulled the cheque out and stared at it. "Besides, my account isn't under the name _Stiles_, you dumbass!"

"I apologize," Peter said. "If you had given me your full name then it would've been legitimate funds by now."

"I told you that it was Polish; you wouldn't be able to spell it right anyway."

"Try me."

Stiles sighed heavily, now pacing around his room. "Look, even if I _was_ going to tell you something that personal it wouldn't be over the phone."

"Then I'll pick you up at seven," was Peter's reply.

Stiles ceased moving, stunned into immobility. "Excuse me?"

"Please tell me that you at least read my note," Peter said, sighing. "Or did you only see dollar signs and ignored everything else?"

"I did," Stiles stammered. "But it wasn't fucking clear, now was it? Saturday evening, blah, blah, blah. How vague can you get?"

"Vague enough to entice this conversation out of you." Stiles could practically see the victorious smile Peter was giving off.

"Oh, you _bastard_."

"Seven it is," Peter replied. "Wear something nice, alright?"

* * *

"Ally, I can dress myself," Stiles grumbled as Allison rifled through his closet. He sat on his bed; shoulders slumped in defeat while occasionally being smacked in the face with a flying article of clothing. "Hey, I had all of those rearranged in a specific way," he whined.

"Oh yes, an entire section dedicated to plaid." Allison then smiled victoriously, holding up the black dress shirt that she'd bought him last Christmas. "Ha, I knew it was in here somewhere!"

"Give it to me before you do more damage to my room," Stiles said, making grabby hands in her direction. Allison tossed it to him, a sly smile on her face.

"Try it on," she said. "I want to see what it looks like."

Stiles gave her a look. "Shouldn't I, you know, iron this out first?"

Allison tapped her finger to her wrist. "Time's a-wasting. Strip now, bucko."

"Geez, are you always this demanding?" Stiles asked sarcastically, but complied with her wishes. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, revealing a lean figure and a noticeable happy trail. Allison hummed in approval as Stiles buttoned up the shirt. He tried flattening out the light wrinkles, suddenly self-conscious.

"I look stupid."

"You look lovely," beamed Allison. She turned her head and shouted at the open door for Scott. Scott stumbled into the room, his tie hanging loosely around his neck.

"How does Stiles look?" Allison asked.

Scott was quiet, contemplating his answer before replying. "It looks like he's trying too hard."

"Scott."

"What?" Scott gave her his best puppy eyes. "Do you want him to look like he stepped out of a cheap porno? Just let him dress himself, Al."

Allison frowned, but replaced it with a small smile when she faced Stiles again. "Don't listen to Crazy over there. You're going to blow him away either way."

"That's what I was afraid of," Scott mumbled under his breath. Stiles barely heard him speak, but he had mastered the art of reading lips long ago. It was how he had found out the bad news the doctor told his parents before they ever got a chance to tell him themselves.

Allison was still in her PJs, so she gave Stiles one more approving nod before slipping out of his room to get changed. Scott was still in the doorway. He leaned against it, watching Stiles as he shrugged out of the black shirt, now only wearing his boxers and white tank top.

"Hey," they both said. Scott ducked his head while Stiles gestured at him to continue.

"I didn't mean that," Scott said, biting his lower lip. "I know I say a ton of things that I shouldn't, like making little comments about… your lifestyle—"

"Nobody else is more honest with me about it than you," Stiles interrupted. He was staring at a spot just past Scott, but he finally dragged his eyes over to lock with his. "Don't apologize for it. Maybe I need to hear it more often."

Scott slowly closed the space between the two of them. They were at an identical, even height; perfectly matched. Scott grabbed Stiles biceps, trailing his fingers down to grip Stiles' elbows. He briefly glanced at the silver scars on Stiles' shoulder that stretched down to his collarbone. They'd faded slightly since receiving them nearly a decade ago from his father's psychotic suspect.

"I don't understand why you want to see this guy, but I can try a little," Scott finally said. "It's just—" Here Scott swallowed before looking into Stiles' eyes. "Well, I thought you and Erica were going to be an item, you know? She terrified me at first, but I saw the way your eyes lit up whenever you mentioned that you were going over to her place, or when you two got back from a movie that one time and wouldn't shut up about it—"

"Scott," Stiles said, but it came out as a squeak. He felt a lump forming in his throat, blocking his airway and suffocating him. "It wouldn't work out between… She's better off this way. She'll be happier this way."

"But what about you?" Scott demanded, but his tone wasn't accusing. Rather, it was sad. "Hey, Stiles? What _your_ happiness?"

"I am happy," Stiles lied. He forced himself to smile, guiding his fingers along Scott's tie. He was good at tying ties; Scott always sucked at making them straight.

"So here's the deal," Stiles said. "I'm going to be out all night, so you two will have the place to yourselves. No, I'm _not_ staying at his place before you ask—I'll get a room somewhere." Stiles cinched up the tie, standing back to admire his handiwork. "But when you do the thing,"—Here Stiles made a circle with his thumb and ring finger, smirking at Scott's shocked look while he made a thrusting motion with his other finger into the circle—"Don't do it in front of a crowd. That's what jackasses do in order to pressure the girl into saying yes. Do it in private, something secluded."

"We're still talking about the same thing here, right?" Scott asked.

Stiles rolled his eyes before grabbing his best friend's face. He touched their foreheads together. "Tonight it's all about her. Well, and you too, I guess."

Scott slowly nodded. Stiles breathed in relief before pressing his lips to Scott's. They were soft and warm, tasting like citrus. He slowly pulled back, brushing invisible dust off of his friend's shoulders.

"She was right. Allison, about the shirt," Scott added at Stiles' confused expression. "But uh, wear what _you_ want."

"Thanks," Stiles said. He pulled a dark burgundy dress shirt out of his closet and slid it on, buttoning it up. Scott visibly relaxed in the shoulders. His fingers brushed against his pocket unconsciously before leaving the room with Stiles.

* * *

Allison and Scott left approximately five minutes before Peter drove up in his car. Even though he wanted to stay and scrutinize the hell out of Peter, Scott had reservations to uphold and he wasn't about to revoke them. Allison gave Stiles a kiss on the cheek and told him to not be nervous. Stiles didn't make any promises.

Stiles didn't want to appear too eager, but he didn't want to be alone in the apartment either, so he hung out in the lobby pretending to look bored. He played 'Unblock Me' on his phone and kept glancing at the time. His phone suddenly buzzed; Peter's name was on the screen. Stiles let it ring four times before answering it.

"It's exactly seven," Stiles said bluntly. "That's so fucking creepy, you know that?"

"Well I assumed that since you aren't a woman you wouldn't need an extra hour to get ready," Peter replied.

"Hey, that's sexist," Stiles said back. "Take that back or I'm not leaving the building."

"Touchy," Peter tsked. "Alright, I'm sorry for stereotyping the female gender. Now get out here before I come in to get you."

"Too bad," Stiles said, smirking. "You need a key to get past the front door."

"I have ways of getting in." Peter's voice had become cold and steely, almost robot-like instead of playful teasing when he said those words. Stiles shuddered, trying to shake off the weird feeling that he was getting. But the moment passed quickly, with Peter saying, "I didn't perceive you to be the type to get cold feet."

"Lies," Stiles said as he stood up and stretched. "I've balked out of every opportunity to spend some alone time with you, so you should be used to it by now."

"I would rather that you didn't make a habit out of it."

"I'm prone to making new habits," Stiles replied, getting up from the couch. He paused at the door, watching Peter's car through the window. He finally pulled it open, walking out into the warm evening air. When he got into the passenger seat Peter pulled away from the curve and drove onto the main street. Silence enveloped the car. Stiles kept checking his phone for any panicky texts that Scott might send his way. Surprisingly, his phone remained silent.

Wow, he thought. Allison must've put him at ease; that's a fucking miracle.

"You're so quiet," Peter said suddenly, breaking into Stiles' thoughts. Stiles' head snapped up, and blushed when he saw Peter staring at him. He never even realized that they weren't moving anymore. Peter had parked just outside one of the locally-owned restaurants that lined Wood Grove Avenue. He and Scott ate there once in a blue moon during their first year of university when they wanted to break away from their crappy meal plan.

Stiles gave his phone one more glance. "Yeah, um, sorry." He quickly tucked it into his jeans pocket, now giving Peter his full attention. "I'm just surprised that you knew that this place existed."

"Why?" Peter asked, smirking. "Because it's beneath my assumed social status?"

"It's low-key," Stiles corrected, rolling his eyes. "And students can actually afford it. Jesus, I feel that you're going cheap on me."

"You're the one paying for the meal."

"Says who? That cheque is no good to me."

Peter pulled out a chequebook, dramatically flourishing his pen across it as he scrawled out several zeroes. "I'd be glad to give you a new one, if you—"

"No way," Stiles interrupted. "Telling you my full name is not even a third base privilege; you have to make a fucking home run to get such high security knowledge."

Peter sighed, but he seemed amused. "Fine," he said, and Stiles gave him a confused look as Peter pulled out of the parking spot and began driving away.

"Uh," Stiles began, lacking a better start. "Where are we going?"

"To my place," Peter said bluntly, giving Stiles a look.

Stiles' heart jack rabbited in his chest. _What?_

"What?" he squeaked out, and he was instantly embarrassed by how high his voice sounded. "Uh, why? Like seriously, why? Aren't you supposed to do the whole 'do you want to come in for coffee' cliché until _after_ the date? I think you're getting it all backwards."

"To tell you the truth Stiles, I don't date like a normal person," Peter replied. "In my line of work I don't have the luxury of hitting all three bases."

"Line of work?" Stiles repeated. "What, are you traveling businessman?"

Peter was quiet for a moment. "Something like that."

"Interesting," Stiles muttered. Peter took a turn and rolled to a stop as the yellow light was turning red. Stiles turned in his seat a little to face him. "Are you going to elaborate on that or what?"

Peter was quiet for a moment, as if he was carefully weighing his words. "That," he said, raising an eyebrow, "would need a 'home run' from you."

"Ugh, you're no fun," Stiles grumbled. He slumped back in his seat as Peter softly laughed. It was a nice laugh, and somehow Stiles felt a little more settled despite his insides squirming with apprehension.

Was it nerves? He wasn't sure. But Stiles felt his face redden when Peter gave him another piercing look. His eyes were so fucking blue that Stiles could write sappy poetry about them.

"So," Stiles asked. "Where do you live exactly?"

"On the Heights," Peter replied calmly. The light turned green and the car sped up considerably.

"Seriously?" Stiles said warily. The Heights cost a bloody fortune to just gaze at in awe. It was at the center of the city, consisting of several mansion-sized homes and an elite apartment complex. Sure, Peter drank expensive wine, but Stiles just assumed that he had an acquired taste for it. That, or he wanted to look impressive without being too pretentious.

"Top floor of the Aubrey Building," added Peter, smirking at the shocked look Stiles was giving him.

"Who did you have to kill to afford that?" Top floor meant the penthouse. Stiles had once whined to Scott that they'd be dead ten times over before they could afford such extravagance.

Peter huffed out a laugh. "My work pays well."

"Yeah, no kidding."

* * *

Peter and Stiles were greeted by the secretary in the front lobby, who was all smiles and blonde highlights. She seemed genuinely friendly, and Stiles almost regretted having to abort their conversation when Peter started steering him toward the elevator.

"Too lazy for the stairs?" Stiles grinned as they stepped inside.

"I get plenty of exercise," Peter replied, pressing the button for the top floor. He punched in an additional numbered password (twelve digits, Jesus Christ) on the keypad above the regular buttons and swiped a card through the card scanner, which glowed green with acceptance. "I don't want to exert myself over something so trivial."

Stiles' sinful mind had mixed up the word 'exert' with another word starring the same amount of letters. He felt his cheeks grow warm, and he tried averting his eyes from Peter's face.

The elevator doors dinged open, and Stiles practically jumped out. He saw Peter shaking his head, but he looked as amused as usual. He seemed amused by everything Stiles did.

The elevator opened up right into the open-spaced penthouse. A single wall separated the kitchen from the luxurious-looking living room. There was a giant window, overlooking the city below. A mahogany bookshelf took up the entire back wall, filled with an assortment of books. Stiles walked over to it, finger trailing across the spines as he read each title.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Peter asked. Stiles nearly jumped; Peter was standing behind him, a hand lightly brushing his shoulder. Stiles hadn't felt his presence until the last second.

"Uh, nothing alcoholic please," Stiles replied as calmly as he could. It was hard to remain indifferent with Peter's breath hitting the back of his neck in that perfect, tantalizing way.

Peter drew back and Stiles caught himself from whining from the loss of that closeness. "Water it is." Peter strode over to the kitchen, opening his sleek black fridge and pulling out one of those Brita filters.

Erica used to have one, until she got tired of having to replace the filter part in it.

Stiles shook away the thought. Dammit, he had been doing so well.

He decided to distract himself by inspecting one of the two framed photographs perched on the coffee table. Stiles sat down on the leather couch, carefully placing his wallet, phone and keys down before grabbing the nearest one.

In the picture was a trio of kids, one boy and two girls. The boy and the elder girl looked to be close in age; both were teenagers with dark hair and cutting features. They could be fraternal twins for all Stiles knew. The younger girl had to be around nine and ten, laughing at whoever was taking the photo. Their facial features and physiques were similar to Peter's.

Stiles felt a weight settling in his stomach. They couldn't possibly be Peter's children; the photo looked like it had been taking about a decade ago, judging by the fashion statement that the kids were showing off. Were they relatives?

Stiles quickly assessed the other picture frame. It was a picture of a dark-haired woman, with knowing eyes and laugh lines around her mouth and eyes.

He nearly dropped the picture in his hands when an arm snaked past his shoulder, setting a glass on the coffee table. "I forgot that I still had those out," Peter murmured into his ear. He walked around Stiles and sat down next to him, watching him with those piercing blue eyes. Stiles quickly set the frame back on the table, heart pounding. Why did he feel like he'd been caught doing something illegal?

"Don't look like that Stiles," Peter said, leaning forward as his expression softened. "I'm not mad at you. They're just photos."

"Who are they?" Stiles blurted out, gesturing at the photos. Peter tilted his head, watching Stiles for a while. Stiles sat there, feeling increasingly nervous until Peter nodded stiffly at the photo of the three kids.

"They're my nephew and nieces," he answered quietly. Sadness flitted across his eyes; it had happened so suddenly and so quickly that Stiles barely registered it. "Well, they _were_ my nephew and nieces."

"Oh" was all Stiles could muster. The implication was grave, and Stiles didn't know how to veer away from that topic without looking heartless.

"It happened a long time ago," Peter said. "There's no point in grieving over it now."

An awkward pause formed between them, with Stiles' gaze constantly flickering from Peter's face to the photograph and back.

It didn't last long, luckily.

"I'm sor—" Stiles began, but then felt Peter's lips pressed against his.

The kiss was soft, surprisingly tender. Peter tasted nothing like Scott, Allison, or Erica, but it was still addicting as hell.

After a moment Peter pulled away, and this time Stiles actually whined. Peter smiled victoriously, then gripped Stiles' chin, and pulled him closer. Their second kiss was intoxicating, full of hunger and want. Stiles felt Peter's tongue swipe across his lips, and Stiles parted them to give him more access.

Peter's tongue, _holy shit._

Stiles grabbed Peter's face with both of his hands, sighing and moaning as Peter pushed him back on the couch, straddling him with his thighs without their mouths breaking contact. Peter was already working on Stiles' belt, loosening it before starting on the zipper on his pants.

_"Peter,"_ Stiles moaned out, pushing at the older man. Peter paused, his eyes cloudy with lust. He loomed above Stiles, his weight pressing him down into the couch.

"Going too fast?" he panted out.

"No," Stiles replied breathily. "Not fast enough. But I'm not fucking you on the couch. I could fall off; hit my head on the corner of that table and fucking _die_."

"So melodramatic," Peter sighed heavily, licking a broad strip up Stiles' neck before peppering it with kisses. Stiles shuddered, his back arching, wanting and needing this so badly. His body was soon going pliant and boneless from Peter's touches. He regained some of his senses as Peter began to work away at the buttons on Stiles' shirt.

"Peter, I mean it," Stiles said sharply, pushing harder this time. "Bedroom. _Now_."

It took them ten minutes to reach Peter's bedroom, but only because Peter kept pushing Stiles up against the walls of the long hallway, smothering him with kisses, sucking and biting at his neck as his hands caressed every curve and dip. Stiles had always been oh so submissive, so he allowed Peter to get away with this. His dick was enjoying the arousing sensation, that's for sure.

Stiles barely had time to register the look of the room as Peter grabbed him by his hips, lifting him up and forcing him down onto the bed. It was decked out with silky sheets and about half a dozen pillows. Peter admired the view for half a second before he stripped Stiles of his jeans, underwear, socks and shoes. Stiles was already pulling off his shirt and tossing it to the side, leaving him completely naked.

"So pretty," Peter breathed. Stiles squirmed, blushing fiercely from Peter's intense gaze.

"Not fair," Stiles said. "You still have all of your clothes on."

Peter shook his head, laughing softly. "You shouldn't have been eager to rid yourself of yours." He began to slowly—so agonizingly slowly, _fuck_—undo the buttons on his own shirt, his eyes never leaving Stiles' body. After a long, torturous minute he slid the shirt off of his shoulders, revealing a nicely defined torso. He was muscular and toned, and all Stiles wanted to do was lick those abs until his tongue fell out of his throat.

Stiles propped himself up on his elbows, glaring at Peter as he began to fiddle with his belt buckle. "Hurry the fuck up," he whined, opening up his legs to give Peter more of a view, a motivation to join him on the bed. "I need your big, fat cock in my ass _right now_."

"So needy," Peter said, sliding his belt out of the loops. "But how do you know how _big_ I actually am? I don't even have my pants off."

"You're being an asshole, you know that?" Stiles growled out, bucking his hips, hoping to entice Peter to take his goddamn clothes off faster. Peter shook his head, smiling with his teeth bared. His fingers traced the inside of Stiles' thighs as his other hand unzipped his pants. Stiles bit his lip, trying to stifle a moan. His dick was rock solid, straining and throbbing to come. When Peter finally slid his pants off, Stiles saw that he was in the same position. He felt his mouth salivating with anticipation.

Peter pushed Stiles down into the pillows and climbed on top of him, aligning their bodies in a way so that Peter could slot their mouths together perfectly. Peter's hands were trailing down the sides of Stiles' frame, gripping his hips when he reached them. Stiles moaned when he felt Peter's blunt nails scraping their way across his groin before pushing Stiles' legs open even further with his knees.

"I've wanted you in my bed since the first time I met you," Peter whispered into his ear. "I wanted to see you like this, mewling and begging and reacting only to _my_ touch." He bit Stiles' neck, eliciting a loud, shameless moan from him. It was enough pressure to leaving an aching bruise, but not enough to break the skin. He then grabbed Stiles' legs, bending them so tightly that Stiles felt his circulation ceasing. Peter reached for one of the pillows and lifted Stiles just enough to settle it under his back. "When I touched you at the bar all I could think about was having you on your hands and knees and fucking you until you screamed my name." Peter slid his body up Stiles', kissing and licking his stomach on the way. Stiles' head was thrown back into the pillows, gasping and moaning and shaking.

He needed to come so badly. Peter's devious expression said that he could tell, but he wasn't about to let Stiles get off.

"But then you disappeared," Peter murmured, kissing the underside of Stiles' jaw. "The month crawled by and you never returned to Vernon's. I was afraid that I'd scared you away."

"I… freaked out…" Stiles gasped out. He was gripping the sheets, balling them tightly into his fists. Peter had begun to grind up against him, causing a frenzied friction that drove Stiles insane with insatiable lust. He was mouthing at Stiles' neck, beginning to work away on a patch of dark hickeys while Stiles tried to stay coherent during his confession.

"And?" Peter urged quietly, kissing Stiles' neck.

"I freaked out… and…" Fuck, how was Stiles supposed to come up with a believable story that somehow explained his own complicated feelings regarding a relationship? One night stands were one thing, but the way that Peter was touching him went way beyond that, like he was expecting more from Stiles.

Just like the way Erica used to touch him.

"Keep going," Peter said. Stiles felt the older man's weight shift as Peter reached over into his nightstand's drawer and pulled out a condom and lube.

Stiles' eyes widened and his heart pounded fiercely against his ribcage. Oh God, oh fuck, _oh fuck yes this was happening_. It was actually happening and his brain was turning to mush as Peter lubricated his fingers nice and slick before prodding him open.

"I didn't understand what you're intentions were and what you wanted out of me or if you were just being nice to a guy who was being harassed or someth—_oh fucking Christ, don't stop._"

Peter's fingers were knuckle deep in him, scissoring him open, hitting his prostate in just the right way. Stiles' legs were trembling so badly that they were going numb. He rambled out a few shaky words, but they were intangible from his filthy moans and pleas for Peter to just fuck him now.

Peter tilted his head, watching Stiles' pleading eyes were slowly dragging his fingers and replacing it with his cock.

There was a brief flare of pain from the stretch because it didn't matter how much Peter had fingered him; he was fucking _huge_. Stiles uttered out harsh sobs and cried loudly when he came, screaming out Peter's name just like he'd predicted. Peter stroked him gently, whispering small praises into Stiles' ear that made him flush with happiness.

"Such a good boy. You look so beautiful right now."

Peter held Stiles' wrists down into the mattress, picking up the pace of his thrusts until his hips were snapping with such force that Stiles' body was moving up the bed, inch by inch. Stiles sobbed from the impact, tears streaming down the sides of his face.

"Peter," he whimpered. He briefly looked over to the side, and saw that the condom package was unopened. He had been so distracted that he'd never noticed that Peter hadn't bothered putting it on.

_"Peter,"_ he repeated shakily. Peter was looming over him, panting as perspiration dripped down his body. His eyes were fixed on Stiles' as he continued to pound into him unforgivingly. He slowed when he felt Stiles shaking with uncontrollable sobs, his breath hitching as he tried to reclaim oxygen. He remained inside Stiles, releasing his grip on his wrists and bracketed his arms around Stiles' face, leaning in close for that they're lips brushed each other's.

"Stiles?" he asked softly. "What's wrong?" Worry creased his brow. Stiles hated seeing that look; it almost looked like pity.

"Don't stop fucking me," Stiles whispered, pushing his lips against Peter's. "I need you to come inside me, like right now. Then we start with round two. I want to be on my hands and knees for you so you can fuck me like an animal. I want to ride you and suck you off and I want you tie me to your bed so you can fuck me raw again. Deal?"

"So many ambitions for one night," Peter sighed, but he was smiling. He kissed Stiles, biting his bottom lip.

"Who said that it had to stop after tonight?" Stiles said, grinning a little. "I hope you have the stamina for all of this, old man."

That's when Peter came, hard. His back arched and Stiles gripped his shoulders in order to ride it out with Peter. It wasn't even his own orgasm, but Stiles felt himself shaking uncontrollably while Peter remained relatively steady. The older man slowly pulled out, eking out a low whine from Stiles from the loss. Peter then promptly rolled Stiles onto his stomach and lifted him to his knees.

"I like you like this," Peter whispered breathily into Stiles' ear, five minutes later. His chin was hooked over Stiles' shoulder; one of his arms was looped around Stiles' middle to keep him steady with the other hand supporting their weight on the mattress. "I like it when you're greedy and wanting, begging so beautifully for my cock. Your resistance beforehand was foreplay, wasn't it?"

Stiles couldn't answer; his elbows were holding him up and he was concentrating on not falling on his face. Peter pounded into him, and the noises that came out of Stiles was indescribable. Peter repeated the action, becoming more ruthless with each snap of his hips. Stiles sobbed loudly; Peter was so deep in him that he could barely move without feeling his cock rubbing against his prostate. Peter stroked him, and he came again.

Stiles' vision blared with stars, and his body slumped forward, exhausted and drained of all of his energy. He still felt Peter thrusting into him even as he faded out of consciousness.

* * *

Stiles woke up, blinded by the sunlight coming through the curtains. He rolled over, wincing from the pain coming from his ass. He felt sore all over, and his stomach itched from the dry come. He got up slowly, and the silk sheets felt from his shoulders.

He was alone in the bedroom, tangled in the sheets and the pillows askew across the bed and floor. He looked over, and saw his clothes in a crumpled pile on the floor. He inched his way out of bed, fingers scrambling to grab his pants.

Stiles stumbled out of the bedroom, looking for the bathroom. Peter never did give him a proper tour of his place, and it looked like he'd left sometime after fucking Stiles into submission.

Whatever; Stiles liked exploring anyway.

He easily found the bathroom, which was adorned with a slipper tub in the corner and a matching, cream-colored sink. Stiles checked himself out in the mirror; he looked wrecked. A line of purple hickeys trailed down his neck, ending at his collarbone. His lips were redder than usual from biting them so hard during sex.

Stiles walked over to the tub and pulled the shower curtain across. He turned on the water as hot as he could stand and used the bar of soap to scrub away at the come on his skin. He lathered his hair with shampoo and rinsed it out; shaking his hair dry once he turned off the taps.

His legs still felt like jelly from last night. Sex with Peter had been… different. Peter, he could tell, loved playing the dominant partner. Stiles didn't really get to do anything, now that he thought about it. He was used to eating Erica's pussy out and swallowing her come. He never asked her reciprocate, but Erica always insisted on deep-throating him.

Stiles quickly toweled off and pulled his pants and shirt on and headed to the living room. He frowned when he reached the coffee table. The pictures were missing, as was his wallet, phone, and keys.

"Peter?" he called out, but he was greeted by silence.

Why did Peter take his things? A brief flutter of panic flared in him. He needed his phone to tell Scott and Allison where he was. Stiles suddenly felt a deep cold settling in his stomach. Peter had driven him here; he had no way of getting home without his Jeep. Even if he had his wallet, there was no money in it for a taxi.

Stiles made his way back down the hallway, opening every door he came across and hastily searching for his things. He couldn't find anything, not even a cordless phone to ring Scott up with. The last room was a huge walk-in closet that would put Erica's to shame. Stiles slowly walked in, making his way to the back. Peter had a shitload of clothing. There was the usual; suits, slacks, dress shirts. But there was some other attire that made him frown in confusion. Peter did say that he kind of a traveling businessman, but what businessman needed a contamination protective suit? And why was it splattered with old blood?

Stiles' heart hammered, pushing the hung clothing to the sides. The closet was deeper than he'd expected. Behind the clothing was a raised ledge, where several black cases lay side-by-side on it. Stiles breathed, and undid the latches on them.

One case held an assortment of knives; a machete, butcher knives and ones with jagged edges meant for shredding flesh. Stiles' heart hammered as he opened up the next case. A gun with a silencer attachment laid there in the indented padding alongside a loaded clip.

What the _fuck?_

All of the cases had assault rifles, sniper rifles, and a fucking _machine gun_. The smallest case contained wire for choking someone to death.

Stiles shook his head. He must be dreaming; none of this made sense. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a manila folder with Peter's name on the front. Across the top in bold red letters was the word 'CLASSIFIED'.

With trembling fingers, Stiles opened it up and pulled out the document. The top of the front page read 'TERMINATION ORDER: URGENT'. Below was a list of requirements and warnings about the… target.

Bits of their conversations flashed through Stiles' mind: Peter's lack of faith, his mysterious career that kept him loaded…

That brief sadness in his eyes over the family picture he still kept.

Stiles quickly flipped to the next page, which contained a glossy photo and a name underneath. It was someone Stiles didn't recognize. A big red 'X' was across his face. The next couple of pictures were all marked with an 'X'. Stiles got to the last four pages, and his chest seized up when he saw Allison's picture smiling up at him.

Allison. Sweet, awesome Ally. The one person that was like his older sister, who hugged him and reassured him and looked after him like he mattered.

Why did Peter have a picture of Allison?

Stiles felt numb as he went through the last three photos. They were photos of Allison's parents, and one other person that Stiles didn't know by face but by name: Katherine Argent.

Allison sometimes talked about her Aunt Kate, but Stiles and Scott had never met her in person. Apparently she was up for assassination.

"I wish that you didn't go through my things."

Peter was already behind Stiles before he had time to react. His arm snaked around Stiles' middle, the other hand coming up to his mouth to muffle his scream.


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles kicked out and struggled, thrashing his body in order to loosen Peter's grip on him. But Peter was like an impenetrable wall; nothing seemed to affect him. He lifted Stiles up just enough that his toes were dragging on the floor. He began to shuffle backwards out of the closet and into the hallway.

Stiles lashed out, his fingers scrabbling to grab the doorframe. Peter merely twisted Stiles' body, throwing him off balance. Stiles' screams collided into Peter's hot fingers, which prompted the older man to tighten his grip on his mouth.

"Don't make this more difficult than it has to be," Peter said, ignoring Stiles' attempts to escape from his grasp. "I don't want to hurt you."

He was using those tired-out lines that every serial killer used. Because that's what he is, Stiles finally realized. He's a fucking murderer.

_I could break in his kneecaps for you if you like._

Peter hadn't been messing around, even back then. He had been stone cold serious and would've done it too if Stiles had let him.

He knew that he wouldn't get far, but he had to get away from him. Stiles bunched up his legs into a tight coil, and then slammed down into Peter's left leg, directly into his kneecap. Peter swore loudly as they both collapsed into the wall, with Stiles' head smashing against it, filling it with pain. Peter's iron grip on him slackened, and Stiles took the chance to wriggle out.

Stiles ran, nearly slamming into the elevator entrance of the penthouse. He pushed the button furiously, panic seizing him when he saw Peter stalking towards him. He wasn't even running, just making his way over to Stiles with careful precision. It's like he knew he was going to win in the end.

"Stay the fuck away from me!" Stiles screamed. He felt tears stinging his eyes, so he quickly wiped them away. His body was still aching from last night, and his stomach lurched from the memory. He leapt to the side when Peter got closer, grabbing a lamp on the side table to use as a weapon. But he was too slow and too weak; Peter merely grabbed his wrist, twisting it so painfully that Stiles dropped the lamp as he cried out in pain. The lamp fell to the floor, smashing into pieces.

Peter grabbed Stiles' other wrist and slammed his body into the wall just as the elevator dinged open. Stiles bit his bottom lip in frustration; he had been so _close_.

"You weren't supposed to find those," Peter said. "That was for my eyes only."

"You should've locked the door to your fucking _murder closet_ if you didn't want people to wander in!" Stiles spat out. He flinched as Peter leaned in, brushing his lips against Stiles' ear.

"It's not murder," he whispered, anger thrumming in his tone. Stiles shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut. "It's _justice_."

Peter suddenly pulled Stiles away from the wall and threw him onto the floor. Stiles groaned, wincing as pieces of the broken lamp dug into his back. Peter climbed on top of him, straddling him in such a sensual manner that made Stiles want to vomit. Stiles' arms were pinned to his sides by Peter's legs, making it impossible to fight back.

"I never did tell you who the woman was in that other photo," Peter began softly. He stroked Stiles' cheek with his knuckles, trailing them down his face and gliding them down his exposed neck. He smiled at the bruise-like hickeys before continuing.

"That was my older sister, Talia. She's dead, just like the rest of my family. They all died in a house fire almost ten years ago. Everyone said that it was an accident, but I knew that they were lying."

"What does that have to do with anything?!" Stiles gritted out. He felt like his heart was in his throat; he couldn't breathe with Peter on top of him.

Peter sighed sadly. "I know you're clever Stiles; please don't make me put two-and-two together for you."

Stiles connected the pieces instantly. "You think Allison's _family_ killed them? Is that why you're hunting them down?" Mr. Argent may've been passive-aggressive at best and his wife was seriously scary, but they couldn't possibly be capable of murder. That didn't gel well with Allison's sweet, loving nature. It didn't _make sense_.

"I don't _think_," Peter hissed into Stiles' ear, cupping the younger man's face. "I _know_ they did."

"Not Ally," Stiles pleaded. "She was barely a teenager then. She couldn't—"

"Age is not a requirement for murder, Stiles," Peter corrected coldly. His thumbs gently brushed over Stiles' cheeks, as if he was trying to soothe him. "Motivation and the means to perform it are."

"What possible motivation would they have to kill innocent people?" Stiles snapped.

"Many," Peter replied vaguely. "Our two families never got along well. Talia was a peacekeeper; she molded her children into the roles as well. It's what got them killed in the end." A flicker of grief passed across Peter's face before his features harden, becoming steely and cold once more. He stood up, pulling Stiles to his feet and turning him around. Peter twisted Stiles' arms behind him, keeping an iron grip on them as he steered him toward his bedroom. Stiles struggled, but Peter squeezed his arms and threw him in the open room.

Stiles landed on his stomach, his limbs colliding into the soft carpeting. Peter closed the door behind him, silently clicking the lock shut. Panic rose in Stiles, and he scrambled to his feet. His arms throbbed from the lack of circulation, and his head still felt woozy from hitting the wall. Peter walked over to him, and Stiles rose his hands up to cover his hands. Peter's dresser was next to him; on top of it was a letter opener. He was aiming to feint surrender, and at the right moment—

"Don't even think about it," Peter said. He was suddenly pressing into Stiles' personal space, snatching the letter opener from its place. Stiles' heart sank; he'd been too slow to the draw.

Peter's free hand reached out and grabbed Stiles' chin and forced him to look up at him. He then dug the letter opener into the soft flesh of Stiles' throat, applying pressure with the edge without drawing blood. Stiles swallowed nervously, shaking all over.

"You don't have proof," Stiles said. He needed to stall Peter long enough for—what, exactly? Right now Scott and Allison would be too wrapped up in their euphoria of everlasting love to notice he'd been gone longer than usual. Also, he had told Scott that he'd be grabbing a room for the night; Scott would believe that he'd slept in or something. But that would be the rational version of Scott that hadn't existed since they were fifteen years old. Paranoid Scott was someone who would wake up from a sex-fuelled night and _still_ freak out if Stiles wasn't home by noon. Stiles had told Scott to make the night about Allison; it _still_ had to be about Allison and keeping her safe.

"You don't have proof," he repeated, backing away as Peter pushed the letter opener even further. Stiles felt a small prick on his throat before his legs hit the end of the bed. "Are you really going to be one of those psychopaths that go around killing people for the flimsiest of reasons? Are you fucking serious?"

"Get on the bed," Peter said in a low voice.

Stiles' mouth instantly went dry. "What?" he squeaked out.

A cruel smile replaced the cold look, making Stiles shudder. "You heard me," Peter said in that same, menacing tone. "Get. On. The. Bed."

Before he even had time to conceive a comeback Peter had released his grip on Stiles' chin and was using that hand to push down on Stiles' chest. The brute force overwhelmed Stiles, and he fell onto his back on the crumpled sheets. Peter climbed on top of him and resumed holding the letter opener against Stiles' throat.

"I'm not a psychopath Stiles," Peter hissed, sliding the flat of the blade across Stiles' Adam's apple. "A psychopath doesn't know how to blend in with the rest of society. But you saw me in action; the public can't tell me apart from a normal man."

Peter had been perfect; too perfect, now that Stiles thought about it. He had carefully crafted himself using the persona of a well-off bachelor who'd lavished a uni-student with far too much attention and consideration for his own good. There had to be a reason for it; no one would act the way Peter did to someone they barely knew, unless there'd been a motivation behind it…

Sudden realization struck Stiles, and a crushing weight threatened to suffocate him.

_I have ways of getting in._

"Did you choose me as your next victim because you knew I was connected to the Argent family?" Stiles asked. "Did you only fuck me to get one step closer to Ally?"

"It was sheer coincidence that I ever found you," Peter admitted, brushing Stiles' still-damp hair from his forehead. "But of course I had to do a bit of research about you. I asked the bartender—Vernon—about you after you left. He was suspicious of me, and tried to make you sound as boring as possible. 'Just some uni-kid' he said. That was enough to get me started. I looked you up at the university, and then I dug a little deeper. I found out about your first year there with your roommate Scott McCall. Then I discovered that he was in a relationship with Miss Argent, and that only sweetened the deal.

"The three of you were close, even though you were the third wheel. You got a place together, and it was effortless to break into your landlord's office and find the papers. But I still needed _you_ for all of this to work out in the end."

"How could you possibly find out all that," Stiles asked venomously, "if you didn't even know my real…" His voice trailed away, and his heart sunk as Peter's victorious smile. "You knew all along," he realized. "You knew, but were playing the ignorant guy."

"It's a unique name," Peter said. "Isn't it, _Szczesny Stilinski?"_

Stiles' stomach rolled just from hearing his own name. No, he wasn't allowed to say it; only Mom was allowed to say it. Scott knew that rule, his father knew that rule. Just Mom, just Mom, just Mom—

"Breathe, Stiles," Peter said gently as he pulled the letter opener away from Stiles' skin. He tossed it aside, and it hit the carpet with a muffled thud. His hands clamped down on Stiles' wrists, pressing the younger man's arms into the soft sheets. Stiles' breathing was coming out in short, harsh spurts. Peter was suffocating him; he needed him to get off.

_Just Mom, just Mom, just Mom, just Mom._

"Shh, it's okay," Peter whispered into his ear. "Don't panic; it's okay." Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to be home with Scott and Allison. He was in a nightmare, and he wanted out. Stuff like this didn't happen to people like Stiles.

He was trapped in the home of a murderer who wanted to kill his big sister. If her life wasn't on the line, then Stiles would almost be content with dying. But if he was dead, who would warn her of the danger? She and Scott didn't know what Peter looked like; they could easily mistake him for a stranger who needed something as innocent as directions. Allison would be too kind and try to help him out, and that's when Peter would strike.

Stiles resumed with his struggles as he became to kick and thrash his body around, but Peter merely twisted his left wrist painfully. Stiles screamed as the bone snapped with a great cracking sound. Intense pain flared up in his arm. Peter was about to break the other wrist when Stiles whimpered out, "Stop, please."

Peter paused, tilting his head as he looked down at Stiles. Tears were welling up in Stiles' eyes, so Peter rubbed his thumbs across his temples to staunch the flow.

"You look beautiful when you cry," Peter told him. His hands began to trail down Stiles' chest, and stopped as they hovered over his groin.

"I cried once," Peter began as he unzipped Stiles' fly, wrenching off his pants and underwear in one fell swoop. "It was when I was called to the station by your father—a deputy at the time—who told me that my family was dead. Little Cora was only ten when she burned alive. She barely got to live before she was killed." Stiles closed his eyes, a lump forming in his throat as Peter carefully undid the buttons on his shirt, the one that Scott had approved of. He felt Peter's wet tongue glide across his exposed chest as he peeled the material off of Stiles' shoulders and he shuddered from the contact. This wasn't hot; it wasn't arousing in the slightest. He heard Peter unzip his own pants, and Stiles gave out a wrenching sob.

"Please don't," Stiles whispered as he felt Peter grab his slender hips, holding them up as he aligned his cock to Stiles' entrance. His body felt cold from the air, but his broken wrist was still throbbing with unspeakable pain.

"Derek was the captain of his basketball team," Peter continued, as if Stiles had never spoken. He pushed in, and Stiles released a strangled cry. Peter's hips snapped into place, and Stiles moaned as the older man's cock smacked into his prostate.

"There were scouts keeping an eye on him; they wanted him to join a professional team once he was out of school. Talia was hoping he'd get a scholarship from one of the universities instead. She always believed in multiple options for her children." Peter's slow movements were becoming more frenzied, as if the thought of his dead family was driving him mad.

Which it probably was, Stiles thought miserably as he tried to block out the sickening sound of skin slapping against skin.

"Laura was the oldest," Peter panted out, thrusting into Stiles with terrifying ferocity. "She was also the heiress of our family. If our families had one thing in common, it was that they were governed by a firm matriarchy. Laura would pass on our name to the next generation and inherit Talia's leadership." Peter hissed as he came in Stiles.

Peter was beginning to slow down, but he kept a piercing tight grip on Stiles' hips, bruising them with his fingers. Peter rested his head on Stiles' shoulder, his cock still nestled deeply in Stiles' ass. Stiles felt too drained to try and push him off. It wouldn't matter anyway; Peter could always break his legs next, and he needed those to run.

But would he ever get a chance to do so?

"Talia was still breathing when they finally got to the burning house," Peter said. He kissed Stiles' collarbone and trailed his hands up his sides. Stiles suddenly felt something cold prick his skin, and realized that it was a needle. His felt his muscles relax against his will. "But she was so badly burned that I could barely recognize her. 'Where are my babies?' she kept asking. 'Where's Derek? Where's Cora? Where's Laura?' Keeping her alive would be cruel. The orderlies asked me if it was okay to pull the plug on my own sister. I allowed them, but only after I got to speak with her one more time. I told her that I was going to find the ones who took her babies away and kill them for her."

Stiles felt numb all over. Tears kept pouring from his eyes, and he didn't know if it was for him or for Peter's family. He didn't know if he felt bad for Peter; he might've, if he wasn't planning to kill Allison. He might've, if Peter hadn't violated him right then and there without asking for his permission.

Stiles suddenly wished that Erica was here. He missed her; he desperately needed her to save him from this horrific nightmare he was in. She would make him feel safe, and kick Peter's psychotic ass in an instant.

Stiles smelled the scent of come as Peter dragged himself out, his hole leaking with the excess fluid. Stiles was staring up at the ceiling, his gaze unseeing and lifeless. He felt Peter's arms circle his waist before he was pulled off the bed, his body pliant and limp from whatever Peter had injected him with. Peter was now carrying him, bridal style, out of his bedroom and inside his closet. A metal chair was now situated in the middle. Peter gently placed Stiles on it before circling around to his back. Stiles' head slumped forward as Peter grabbed his wrists and pulled them behind him. Stiles hissed in pain as Peter coiled a length of rope around them, cinching it tight. Peter then proceeded to wrap Stiles' middle with a second set of rope, and then used a third and a fourth to fasten his ankles to the front legs of the chair. Shame blossomed through Stiles; his legs were spread open, exposing his junk. He wasn't even allowed the decency to cross his legs to conceal them.

Peter stood in front of him, admiring his handiwork. "The paralysis will wear off soon," he informed Stiles. He planted two fingers underneath Stiles' chin and tilted it upwards, forcing Stiles to look at him. "Even if you escape you'll be too late. Allison will be dead, and her family will understand the pain of losing a loved one before I finish them off."

"She had nothing to do with it," Stiles muttered stubbornly. "Just leave her out of this."

"Even if she didn't start the fire, she's still involved in this," Peter told him coldly. He kneeled in front of Stiles, and cradled his face in his hands. "Parent's sin, children suffer," he said as he pressed his mouth against Stiles'.

Peter slowly drew back, standing up and heading for the door. He reached into his pocket, and drew out Stiles' phone. Stiles' heart sank when he saw Allison's contact number lighting up the screen. Peter was texting her something before sending it promptly to her.

"We'll have more time to get acquainted when I get back, Szczesny." Peter gave him one last look before shutting the door on Stiles, leaving him in darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

Sunlight poured in through the cheap blinds, creating blinding stripes across their bed. Scott groaned, and pressed himself against Allison's back, hugging her around the middle. He blinked, and stared blearily at the alarm clock on their nightstand. It read 10:46.

Scott wasn't used to sleeping in like he did this morning. He'd usually get up early to get ready to go to work or for a morning run with Allison on his days off. He was up even earlier during the school semester. Scott frowned at the lack of noise coming from the kitchen; Stiles would usually be up at this point on a Sunday morning, singing out of tune while making breakfast. It took Scott's mind a moment to catch up: Stiles wasn't home.

A wave of panic rolled through Scott before he uncharacteristically settled down; Stiles had expressly told him that he had vacated the apartment for the night in order to give Scott and Allison privacy. He just hoped that his best friend didn't stay over at that creep Peter's place.

He felt Allison stir against him before hearing her yawn. Scott loosened his hold on her so she could roll over to face him. He smiled at the ring on her finger; he still had butterflies from when she said "Yes!" before even letting him finish the question.

"Morning, Sleepyhead," Allison murmured happily, kissing Scott's cheek. She was glowing, all smiles and giddiness. Scott felt like he was in a dream, and he never wanted to wake from it. The dinner went better than he expected. He had wanted to propose to Allison in private, he really did, but Scott had a terrible poker face and Allison was able to tell that something was on his mind. She'd gently prodded him until he decided to throw his carefully-laid plans to the wind and got down on one knee. Nearby couples and the mingling staff at the restaurant oohed and awed at the right times. Scott had been so anxious that he forgot most of the speech that he'd been prepared to say to Allison. She didn't seem to mind; her smiling face said it all.

"Morning," Scott said back. He pulled her close and kissed her on the lips. Allison's hands found her way into Scott's hair, entangling her fingers in as she deepened the kiss. She rolled on top of him as Scott's hands slid up and down her waist. Their bodies fit so well together, like pieces of a jigsaw. They were still naked from last night's "celebration" and had been too exhausted to change into their pyjamas afterwards. Allison was all soft and warm; Scott smiled against her lips as he rolled her onto her back and began to press kisses down her chest and stomach.

Making love to Allison was like witnessing the entirety of the universe aligning into a perfect formation. Everything always felt right with her, as if her very presence could smooth away the ugly splotches of his past. He knew that she was the one the moment he laid eyes on her.

Laughter bubbled up from Allison's mouth, which soon turned into small gasps and tender moans as Scott entered her. He kissed her neck as her nails scrabbled for purchase on his back.

"I love you so much," Scott panted, smiling against Allison's neck.

"I love you too," Allison whispered back, and Scott felt the warmth of her love wash over him in a gentle wave.

* * *

It was ten minutes to twelve when Allison's phone buzzed on the countertop. She and Scott were eating crepes in their tiny kitchen, the former lathering hers with a copious amount of Stiles' coveted whipped cream. (She would buy him some more, no big deal.) Allison grabbed her phone, sliding her thumb across the screen to read the message: '_I got kicked out. Need a ride. Can you come pick me up?' _Underneath was an address that Allison knew in passing.

"What's up?" Scott asked when he saw her tiny frown. Allison held up her phone: it was a text from Stiles.

"Kicked out?" Scott repeated. "He said he was staying at a hotel last night." Scott's brow creased in worry before his face morphed into frustration. "He stayed at that guy's place, didn't he?"

"Sounds like it," Allison said, staring at her phone. "Don't be so alarmed, it's no big deal," she added gently when she saw the look Scott was giving her. "He's an adult, but he's allowed to make these mistakes too."

"He wanted us to have the place to ourselves," Scott said. "I just wished he went… somewhere else."

"Hey, you don't know Peter personally," Allison said. "For all we know, he's the perfect gentleman that Stiles described him as. Scott made a face. Allison leaned over the table to give him a quick peck on the mouth.

"Then why would he 'kick him out'?" Scott argued wearily.

"That's just a blunt statement," Allison said. "Maybe Peter had to go to work and so Stiles had to leave?"

"Well, it's still rude of him to not give Stiles a ride home," Scott grumbled. He sighed heavily, rubbing his faced with his hands. "I hope he's OK."

"I'm sure he is," Allison replied, but she suddenly felt apprehension. Well, it was more like a bad feeling. She turned to Scott, trying to shake off the anxiousness that had suddenly possessed her.

"Scott," she began slowly. "Where's your phone?"

Scott gave her a confused look before understanding dawned on him. He jumped out of his seat, rushing to their bedroom. A minute later he came back with his phone, his body tense and on the verge of panic.

"I got nothing from him," he said, showing her the screen. The last text he'd received from Stiles was from yesterday morning, reminding Scott to buy toilet paper.

Something was wrong, because the one rule that kept Stiles safe and Scott's mind at ease had been broken. Why was Stiles able to text her but not replicate the message and send it to Scott?

"I'm going to give him a call," Allison announced, tapping the button to dial him up. Scott watched her anxiously, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Each ring felt like an eternity, and nearly a minute passed before she heard Stiles' phone message.

_"Hey, I can't come to the phone right now, but feel free to leave me your name and number!"_

After the beep, Allison quickly said, "Stiles, it's Allison. We're just worried about you. Call us back, OK?" She hung up, looking over at Scott.

"Maybe he just forgot to text you too?" Allison suggested, but Scott vigorously shook his head.

"He doesn't forget, he _never_ forgets," Scott whispered. He was shaking, and he bit his lip. Allison stood up and walked over to him, circling her arms around his shoulders. Scott hugged her back, squeezing her middle tightly as he hid her head on her shoulder. After a moment they broke apart. Scott was breathing heavily, but at least he was breathing. He hadn't been prompted into an asthma attack, which was a good sign.

Allison looked down at her phone, and suddenly got an idea. "I'll phone Erica," she said.

She and Erica had exchanged numbers years ago on a whim. It had been during one of her rare visits to their apartment, and Allison had been explaining the texting system the trio had. _"I should get your number, just for the worst case scenario,"_ Allison had said.

The number was still in her phone; Allison prayed that Erica hadn't changed it over the years. Her phone went through four rings before a distracted "Hello?" came from the other end.

Allison sighed in relief. Maybe Erica had seen Stiles?

* * *

It had been about twenty days since she and Stiles had had sex—not that Erica was counting or anything. But she's been feeling nauseous lately, and there were few things that got Erica terrified. She was crouched next to the toilet, willing for the sickly feeling to pass. Lydia was heading to the pharmacy and would be over soon.

Erica's phone buzzed from its perch by the sink. Erica groaned, looking over at it. She didn't want to get up from the floor; it was too much effort at this point. But the ringing persisted, using the generic ringtone she used for people on her contact list that weren't close friends, her boss, or… Stiles.

Who knows, it might be important.

Erica gingerly got to her feet, grabbing her phone before collapsing to her feet. The bathroom tiles were so cool, perfect for soothing her heat-drenched skin. She was wearing nothing but her panties and her silky bathrobe; her breasts felt too tender to be wearing a bra.

"Hello?"

A huge sigh of relief came from the other end of the line. "Hello, Erica? This is Allison Argent. You may not remember me but I'm Stiles' roommate."

Allison Argent? Erica frowned, but not from confusion. Stiles had brought her up enough in conversations to know about her. Her voice was shaky, as if she was about to cry. Erica sat up straighter.

"What's wrong?" Erica asked sternly.

"I don't know, we might be overreacting," Allison began, trying to keep her voice even. "But we haven't heard from Stiles. Well, we got a text from his phone but we're not sure if he's the one that sent it."

"Why would you think that?" Erica asked.

Allison hesitated, murmuring something to someone else. Probably her boyfriend, Scott, whom Erica was positive that Stiles was in love with by the way he would talk about him.

"We have a system," Allison explained. "I'm pretty sure I told you about it a long time ago, but whenever Stiles is out, he usually texts both of us. I'm the only one that heard from him. I would say that it's no big deal, that he probably forgot, but—"

"Who was he with last?" Erica asked urgently, pulling herself to her feet. Her nausea was gone all at once, as if her body was pushing the symptoms aside for this situation. "Was he with Peter?"

"You knew?" Allison asked, sounding surprised.

Erica smirked in spite of herself. "Stiles tells me everything; he was hoping to snag that hot piece of ass for a while now. It sounds like that's the sort of trouble he's in now."

On the other end Scott could be heard groaning.

"Yes he was," Allison quickly answered. "Stiles didn't want to be the third wheel or something ridiculous last night, so he went out with Peter. I'm not sure where they went, but I was sent an address."

"Give it to me," Erica ordered. "I'll check it out for you. Sounds like our boy is in a heap of trouble." She hung up, and a few seconds later her phone buzzed with a text from Allison. Erica huffed; the address led to a sketchy street on the west side of town. Whoever had stolen the phone didn't have a flare for subtlety.

It wasn't hard for Erica to put two-and-two together. Stiles went off with Peter—a man he barely knew—probably got thoroughly ravished by him, and was now caught up in some trap. Yes, it was an insane and improbable leap of logic, but Erica was raised on movies and books that based themselves solely around these types of clichéd plots. Peter was trying to lure Allison out from safety, but why? Was Stiles a victim for ransom? The Argent family's wealth wasn't a well-kept secret; maybe Peter heard about it and knew about Stiles' connection to its heiress.

The problem was that Erica didn't know a lick about Peter, not even his surname. She had no idea what he looked like or what he drove, so it'd be impossible to give a description to the police. _Should_ she get the police get involved?

Erica could've sworn that Stiles must have met him somewhere public. Then it hit her; the night that they ate sushi and fucked each other's brains out. It was the night that Stiles went to her for "relationship advice", and he had mentioned that Peter bought him drinks. Erica strained her mind, trying to recollect that conversation. A bar; Stiles had mentioned a bar.

The problem was which bar? Stiles frequented quite a few clubs and bars over the years, so the answer was in the dozens. She could try the closest one she knew; Vernon's.

Erica had introduced Stiles to Vernon's a couple years back. She knew the owner, Vernon Boyd IV, because it was a Boyd family business with the current Vernon being the fourth one to own it. Her father was in charge of the bar's insurance.

Erica quickly got dressed, wearing her softest sweatpants and an old tank top; there was no need to be fancy today. Erica loved to be the spectacle, the centre of attention whenever she was outdoors, but today was different. She didn't want to draw attention in case the wrong sort of people got suspicious of what she was up to. She pulled her hair up into a ponytail and grabbed her keys on the way out.

* * *

The sign said it was closed, so Erica rapt her knuckles on the front door, patiently waiting for an answer. A minute later Vernon was walking toward the door, and through the glass she could see him with his mouth open, prepared to say that they were closed until the afternoon. He opened the door, and closed his mouth. Erica gave him a small smile.

"Hey, Erica," Vernon said, and his stiff shoulders relaxed. Erica flashed her teeth in a grin.

"Hey, hon," she replied lightly, stepping into the building. Vernon moved aside to let her in before locking the door behind her. Erica waltzed into the bar, sitting down on one of the stools. Vernon sat down next to her, giving her an inquisitive look.

"I know it's been a long time," Erica began, but Vernon held up a hand to stop her word flow. He didn't seem mad, just curious.

"I've been busy with this place, and you have your own life," Vernon said. "I understand that. Is something wrong? You have this anxious vibe coming off of you."

Erica bit her lip and nodded. There was no point in hiding behind a cheerful façade. "I'm worried about… a friend," she replied slowly.

"A friend." Vernon raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess, he's five-foot-ten, brown eyes, kind of a spaz."

Erica nodded. "Yeah, it's Stiles. How did you guess?"

"Because you always light up when you mention him," Vernon said. "Every other 'friend' never got that response out of you. It's the same for him. He was downright miserable the last time I saw him, and I knew it was about you." Vernon straightened up on his stool, and crossed his arms, the muscles bulging underneath his taut T-shirt. The bar's logo was stretched across his chest, and Erica remembered how she once ogled the breadth of his body, fantasizing about it. Vernon had shot that fantasy down pretty early on, long before she met Stiles.

"What kind of trouble is he in?" Vernon asked, breaking into Erica's thoughts.

"His friends are worried about him," Erica said. "Last night he did a test drive with his new fuck buddy and didn't come home this morning."

"It sounds like they're overreacting," Vernon replied quietly, but his face was saying something else.

"They have this system," Erica insisted. "Stiles has to text both of them whenever he's out, but he only texted Allison with this skeevy address." She showed him the address that Allison had sent her.

Vernon frowned. "It's suspicious, I'll give you that."

"I came here because Stiles met the guy in a bar, and I was wondering if you had any idea of who he really is."

"I get a lot of patrons," said Vernon, shrugging. "Do you have a description of him?"

"No," Erica replied. "But I have a name. Well, his first name. Have you ever heard of a man named Peter?"

Vernon stilled, looking at Erica with such intensity that made even her feel uncomfortable. "I know who you're talking about," he finally said, and Erica sagged in relief.

"Thank God," she said. "This is going to make this so much easier."

"You shouldn't go off on your own looking for this guy," Vernon warned. "He's dangerous."

"Well, _yeah_," Erica agreed, rolling her eyes. "He's done something to my Stiles, and I'm not the tolerant type."

"I mean it," Vernon said seriously. "I don't have concrete proof, but he's always given off this bad vibe that spelled trouble. I got suspicious of him when he asked after Stiles the first night he met him. I tried to veer him off course, but when Stiles came back last week Peter had suddenly shown up as well. Now you're telling me that he's done something with him."

"I'll be careful," Erica said.

"You don't even know where he lives or where Stiles even is," Vernon pointed out. "Even if you did, I'm not letting you go alone."

"Then you have no choice but to come along with me," Erica grinned, and Vernon sighed. He glanced around the bar, and must've deemed it spotless enough for opening when he said, "I just have to make a call and get Danny to start his shift earlier. We'll take my car."

"Thank you," Erica said, kissing him on the cheek. Five minutes later they were in Vernon's black SUV, cruising down onto the main street.

"Before you ask, yes, I know where he lives," Vernon said as they stopped at a red light. "I insisted on checking his ID the last time he was in, even though he looks like he's well past thirty."

"And he didn't get suspicious?" Erica said, raising an eyebrow.

"I do random checks with all of my patrons, even with my regulars," he replied calmly. "He looked annoyed, but I've done it to him before."

"What if it's a fake address on his ID?" Erica asked.

"It'd be hard for him to pull off living on the Heights if he didn't already act the part," said Vernon. "The Aubrey Building has one of the highest security systems money can buy. A secretive man like Peter would value that."

"Yeesh, you sure know a ton about Peter," Erica said.

Vernon was quiet as they drove down a couple blocks before he turned onto the road leading to the Heights. Erica didn't bother to question him about it since another wave of nausea was threatening to overcome her.

"Want me to pull over?" he asked, seeing Erica double over, pressing a hand to her mouth.

"No," Erica said. "It'll pass. Besides, I have to find him."


	8. Chapter 8

Scott had been right, Stiles thought miserably. I should've trusted his instincts instead of mine.

The paralysis had finally worn off, but his broken wrist was twisted and throbbing horribly. Stiles had been in there long enough for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and he could see the outline of the door just ahead of him. His eyes burned from the pain, tears streaming down his heated face. Stiles sobbed as he tried to move his limbs and fight against the restraints. But Peter had him tied tightly and trussed up like prized game. There was no escape; Peter was going to return at some point and do God-knows-what to him. Stiles was still sore and bruising from their last "interaction", and his chest tightened at the thought.

Peter was going to kill Allison. He was going to kill her and most likely Scott too because Scott would never let her face the trap alone. They'd be dead, and Stiles would still be in the closet like the pathetic victim that he was.

What was Peter planning to do to him? He would never let Stiles go; he knew too much at this point. Would he kill him? He knew that rape wasn't off the table; Peter didn't even hesitate when he had his way with him, so brutal and relentless. He'd probably fuck him until he got bored of Stiles, then dismember him and throw his corpse in the trash. The horrifying thought was too much, starting off another torrent of sobs that ripped from Stiles' throat.

He tried to focus his thoughts on Erica, thinking of her quick wit and blonde hair, her casual smirk and loving hands. He was always up for anything with her. Erica was into bondage, but Stiles had been nervous about being tied to her bed, even though it was for sexual pleasure. It reminded him too much of the time he got kidnapped when he was a teenager; how rough and clumsy the man's hands had been as he tied Stiles to the exposed pipe. He'd been terrified and ashamed of revealing that part of his past to Erica for the longest time, and had put on a brave face as she coiled the rope around his wrists and secured him to the headboard. He thought he could get through it since he had always put on a brave face for Scott's sake, but his body kept seizing up and shaking from fear. Erica had realized the triggering response within a second and had released him. She held and petted him throughout his panic attack, planting soft kisses to his temple.

For the thousandth time since Peter had left him there, Stiles wished that Erica was here.

Stiles tried wriggling his legs, moving his knees back and forth in order to loosen the rope's grip on his ankles. His feet were cold from the lack of circulation. Stiles' stomach did a flip when his chair nearly tipped to one side. He hastily adjusted his weight to the other side, balancing himself out just in time.

His chair was at a diagonal now, which gave him an idea.

Stiles twisted his head around, staring at the rows of clothing. He could see the raised ledges holding the black cases. The one containing all of the deadly knives was still open from when he'd been investigating them earlier. His stomach sunk when he saw that the one containing the sniper rifle had vanished.

_No no no no no no no—_

Stiles' breathing came out in short spurts; he had to get it under control so that he wouldn't bring on a panic attack. That wouldn't be a good idea with him being trapped and constrained in such a tiny area. He sucked in a great lungful of air and forced it back out. He repeated the process until his breathing was regulated and controlled once more.

Stiles then twisted his torso and knees to the left, and he heard the chair scrape on the hardwood with some small satisfaction. He then repeated the process, this time to the right. The minutes dragged by as Stiles forced his restrained body to work with him, pushing himself backwards little by little. After twenty minutes of careful movement Stiles felt his fingertips of his unbroken hand touch the ledge. He gritted his teeth, and gave his body once more final swing.

Stiles breathed heavily as he scrambled to grab one of the knives from the black case. This was the most frustrating part, since he could barely see over his shoulder to get a good look at them. His fingers finally closed over cold metal and his gripped the jagged edge tightly. Stiles carefully shifted his hold on the knife, his fingers maneuvering the blade so that he could hold it by the handle instead. He held onto it for dear life as he began to saw through the ropes, gritting his teeth whenever his broken wrist got jostled from the rough movements.

"COMEON!" Stiles screamed after ten minutes of useless sawing. These ropes were the genuine article; he might as well try cutting through steel cables with a toothpick. He felt hot tears bubbling up and spilling down his cheeks as he forced the knife through the ropes. He cried out in agony as his wrist rubbed against them, inflaming the skin with rope burn.

He had to get out of here. It felt like the walls were closing in on him. Stiles hiccoughed out a sob as he grinded the blade against the ropes. They felt looser on him; did some of it finally fray?

Excitement bloomed in his stomach; he was going to get out! His cutting became more frantic, and finally the rope came free. Stiles sobbed in relief, bringing his hands in front of him. His hand with the broken wrist was at an abnormal angle, still coursing with pain. Stiles tenderly used it to grab at the rope around his torso, cursing and screaming as he sawed through it with his good hand. It was much easier to get free when your hands weren't tied, literally.

After his ankles were free, Stiles slowly rose to his feet, his wobbling and boneless from the lack of movement. He flicked the switch, and was greeted with a bright light. He went to the door, and turned the knob. It was locked.

Stiles groaned in frustration. The knives were a ploy; Peter had left them there on purpose to toy with him. He wanted to give Stiles the illusion of escape, only to block that chance away with another barrier.

But now that he was free, Stiles could use the supplies in the closet in order to make an escape. He pressed his broken—and now horribly swollen—wrist to his chest as he gave the room an onceover.

Some of the other black cases of mass destruction were still here, but when Stiles tried to pry them open he found that they were locked. He probably didn't want me shooting up his precious walls, Stiles thought bitterly. A firearm would be perfect about now; Stiles could've shot one off and alerted Peter's neighbours to his presence.

But now that he knew Peter, the true psychotic one under the polite mask, it was five hundred percent possible that the walls were soundproof. It made sense; no one seemed concerned about the screaming and noise from the earlier roughhousing.

Stiles shuddered at the thought, and continued to peruse the room.

He decided that the knives were his best bet of getting out of here. Stiles was still naked, but he refused to put on some of Peter's clothes; he'd rather go around in his birthday suit than one of Peter's murderous ones. He stabbed the door right in the center; pushing the blade in as far as he could before twisting it to the left. Slivers of the wood and paint cracked off, but not enough to make a weak enough dent in the wall for Stiles to kick his foot through.

But still, it was a start.

* * *

Erica ended up vomiting as soon as she staggered out of Vernon's SUV. Vernon had parking in the visitor's lot on the side of the Aubrey Building, and he crouched next to her, rubbing soothing circles into her back. Erica's phone buzzed, and her heart leapt. She snatched it out of her pocket, and her shoulders slumped. It wasn't Stiles—of course it wasn't, he was in danger—but rather Lydia.

"So I go back to your place and find it vacated," Lydia scolded from the other end. Erica winced; she had completely forgotten about her.

"Something came up," Erica said. "I had to step out."

"You are supposed to be _resting_," Lydia said tightly. "That was the whole reason for me going to the pharmacy instead. Have you thought about how this will impact the ba—?"

"Please, it's been three weeks," Erica snapped, but there was no real bite in her words. "Nothing bad is going to happen, Jesus Christ." She suddenly felt exhausted. Vernon gently helped her to her feet as she continued to yammer away on the phone.

"This is important," Erica added as she and Vernon walked into the front lobby. The secretary at the front desk looked up and gave them a bright smile. Vernon went over to talk to her as Erica sat down on one of the plush couches.

"What's so important that you, who could barely stand up from morning sickness, had to go gallivanting out of your apartment—"

"Stiles."

Well, that sure shut Lydia up. Erica could hear her TV on Lydia's end with nothing else to break the silence. Erica forgot that she had left it on.

"What happened?" Lydia asked coolly. "Did he beg for you to take him back?" Lydia made it sound like Erica and Stiles had broken up on bad terms, when it had been the complete opposite. Why did it matter to her; she was still going to get what she wanted in the end.

"He's in trouble," Erica said. "I'm with Vernon; he's helping me out."

"So what am I expected to do?" Lydia said. "Sit around for you to come home?"

"You can _leave,_" Erica growled out. "I don't need you to be around 24/7, for fuck sakes. I just need to find him and then I'll deal with my stupid problems, alright?!" She wasn't in the mood for Lydia's smart mouth; what she wanted was to find Stiles and then go home and puke the rest of her guts out.

"I don't think so," Lydia said back. "What I'm going to do is call the police."

"What?!" Seriously, what was that woman thinking? Did something in Erica's tone tip Lydia off about the impending severity of the situation?

"Yes," Lydia insisted. "This is starting to sound like a bad situation, which will seriously put a strain on your body. Whatever is going on is too much for you and your bar buddy to handle."

Erica subconsciously pressed a hand to her stomach. "I pride myself in handling a bad situation," she replied coolly. Vernon was making his way over to her now. Erica stood up, and press 'End', ignoring any protest Lydia was about to spout out.

"She didn't see Stiles or Peter leave the building today," Vernon said, "but she said that her shift started half an hour ago, so there's a good chance that the other lady might've seen them."

"There's no time to wait for her to confirm it," Erica said. She glanced over at the elevator.

"He's the penthouse," Vernon explained. "You'd need the code and key card to get in to access his elevator entrance.

"What about the stairs?" Erica asked. "He has to have a regular door to get in, in case of a fire or if the elevator's out of service."

Vernon pondered this, but Erica could tell that he was agreeing with her. "How well are you feeling?" he asked gently. "It's the top floor; it's quite the trek."

"I'll survive," Erica said, grinning.

* * *

"Do we call the cops?" Scott asked. Allison noticed how antsy he was; he couldn't stop rubbing his hands together and he kept staring at Allison's phone as if it would reveal all of the answers of the universe to him.

"I don't know," she admitted. "Usually you have to wait twenty-four hours if they're an adult."

"I'm pretty sure that's a rule Hollywood made up," Scott argued. He ran his fingers through his hair and took deep breaths. "If they're in danger, then the police will make it a top priority. Did Erica say what she was going to do?"

"She didn't, but I have a feeling that she has a plan."

"Even if she does, I can't wait around here." Scott twined his fingers with Allison's, giving them a squeeze. "I can't go through that again. I'm sorry that I'm being selfish, but—"

"Selfish?" Allison couldn't help but laugh. Scott could be so ridiculous at times. "It's not selfish to want your loved ones to be safe." She leaned in, pressing her forehead to her fiancé's.

_Fiancé. _It was an unusual word on her tongue, but she liked the taste of it. It was like saying the word 'home'. Scott was the embodiment of home and loving warmth, and he shamelessly expressed it every day. Everything that hurt him hurt her too. She hated seeing him look so lost and helpless.

"Today should be about us," Scott murmured sadly. "It should be about celebrating the next step in our lives."

"It still is," Allison corrected. "We're just modifying it. As soon as we get Stiles back everything will be better."

They stood like that for several minutes, just breathing in the comfort that the other provided. Scott's breath was hitching, so Allison pulled him into a hug. Scott pressed his eyes into her shoulder, choking out little sobs and whimpers.

"It's like déjà vu," Scott whispered into her ear. "Only this time I don't know what to do. Back then all I had was a bike. It took me forever to find him. When I finally did find the place where the asshole was keeping him, I went ballistic. I took my bat to him and gave it everything I had. I didn't stop until I heard his ribs break. It was like I was a different person."

Allison had heard this story before, only a different perspective of the scenario. It had been around four years ago when Stiles sat her down and explained his and Scott's codependency issues. She had been quiet whilst Stiles recollected his memories of the incident; memories that constantly replayed in his best friend's head whenever Stiles turned up late or went missing for hours at a time. Allison remembered thanking him for telling her, and had kissed him chastely on the cheek.

She slowly pulled away from Scott and cupped his face, wiping away the tear tracks with her thumbs. "I'm going to go file that report," she said. "Come on, let's get dressed and head down to the station."

* * *

The wood was beginning to weaken. Splinters littered the ground around Stiles' feet. He had been working on the door for about half an hour in a frenzied spurt, pausing only to rest his arm. His broken wrist was still throbbing, but it had dulled now that it was free of restraints.

Stiles had a plan; break down as much of the door with knife as humanly possible and then use one of the heavy black cases as a battering ram. It wasn't the most ideal plan, but at least it was a plan. He tried not to think of Peter returning, hands red with Allison's blood. It made his stomach churn, and he had to stop to breathe at one point. At the very least he was destroying the psycho's property.

Goosebumps rose along his arms from the air conditioning kicking in. He was still naked, but Stiles didn't care. He dragged the sharp edge along wood of the door, and ripped it out, bringing a huge splint away from the frame. His heart leapt when he saw a tiny hole in the door, peering out from the other side.

It was working! His pulse pounded with newfound enthusiasm. The blade in his hand was starting to dull. Stiles quickly replaced it with another one from the open case and continued his work.

Suddenly, the sound opening and slamming shut made Stiles freeze. He paused, the knife's tip touching the door. He felt cold all over. The sound of footsteps falling got closer to his position. Stiles choked down a sob; was Peter already back? Impossible; time hadn't passed that quickly, had it?

"Stiles?"

He stepped back, not daring to believe it. He kept the knife in front of him. The voice sounded like—

"Erica?" Stiles whispered.

The lock clicked open, and the door swung open, revealing Erica. She was pale and looked sickly; otherwise, it was her.

"Stiles."

The two of them stared at each other. Erica was breathing heavily, as if she had run a thousand flights of stairs. She was dressed so casually that Stiles was confused for a moment.

Stiles' grip on the knife loosened. Erica was looking up and down, her eyes now fixed on his exposed junk.

"You're naked" was all she said.

Stiles dropped the knife, and it stuck into the carpet as he lurched forward, wrapping his arm around her. Erica staggered back from the sudden weight, but soon she was hugging him back just as tightly.

"Holy shit," Stiles wheezed out. "Holy shit, you're here!"

"And you're still naked," Erica smiled into his neck. "A bit eager, aren't you?"

Remembering why he was naked in the first place brought on a fresh wave of sobs from Stiles. Erica rubbed circles into his back, cooing soft words into his ear as she lowered them both to the ground. Stiles was now on his knees, hugging Erica's middle.

"Shh," she said, planting a kiss to his forehead. "It's okay, sweetie. I'm here now. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"Allison!" Stiles cried out. He pulled away from her, panicking.

"Don't worry, she contacted me first," Erica said, winking. It was as if she had read his mind.

"Thank God," Stiles breathed out. He wrapped his arms around himself, shuddering with relief. "Thank fucking God."

"She's a smart cookie," Erica said. "She sent me the address that 'you' sent. Not a clever plan, that's for sure."

"I need my clothes," Stiles replied, giggling in spite of himself. "Oh fuck, I'm so cold. It's like winter in here."

"Some people just can't help but to show off their wealth," Erica huffed out.

"Takes one to know one."

Erica gave out a short laugh before standing up. She held out her hands, and Stiles clutched them for dear life as she pulled him to his feet.

Vernon—what the hell?—was making his way down the hallway, an urgent look on his face. "We tripped a back-up security alarm," he informed them.

"Shit," Erica hissed, touching her stomach. "Why didn't we hear it?"

"It was silent, but I saw the control panel blink by the door," Vernon explained. He looked over at Stiles, keeping his eyes on his face. "How are you holding up?"

"Nothing a little bit of therapy can't fix," Stiles replied shakily. He swallowed down a lump as his eyes glanced over at the bedroom door. "Can you get my clothes? They're…" He pointed in the direction of Peter's room.

"No problem," Vernon said, walking into the room. He returned ten seconds later, holding Stiles' rumpled clothing. Stiles quickly pulled them on; he wanted to burn them because of what they reminded him of.

"Let's get out of here."

The three of them made their way to the elevator. Stiles pressed the button frantically, as if that would open the doors more quickly. He gave the room one more glance, and sunk to his knees. He threw up; it was mostly water, but it still burned his throat.

"Have you phoned the police?" Stiles asked.

Vernon nodded. "We have to take the long way up here, but I called them and told them about the address Peter texted to your friend. It was Peter, right?"

"Yeah, it was," Stiles choked out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I saw him with my phone. The papers!" he suddenly cried out, jumping to his feet. "Maybe he left them here!"

"Stiles, what are you talking about?" Erica asked.

Stiles' hands shook as he pointed at the hallway. "In—in the closet. It had a file. It said 'Urgent Termination' or something like that. It had all of Allison's family listed there, and some other people that I didn't know. But he wants to kill them!"

"We'll let the police take care of it," Vernon told him. He gave Stiles' shoulder a reassuring pat. "Right now we have to get you home."

"Yeah," Stiles said, nodding reluctantly. "OK."

The elevator doors finally opened up, and a great whooshing sensation filled Stiles' stomach. It sunk like a stone as a person stepped out, aiming the gun at him.

"Today's just not our day," said Peter, his finger resting on the trigger. He flicked his hand to the left, and shot Vernon in the shoulder. Vernon grunted, and he fell back, clutching his shoulder. Blood was dampening his shirt.

Peter stepped out of the elevator, shoving the barrel of the gun into Stiles' throat. "This is not how I wanted to end things, Stiles, but I'm afraid that we're going to have to cut things short."


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles felt the gun against his Adam's apple. Peter had pulled out a second gun from his waistband, and was aiming it at Erica. As he moved forward, they stepped backward, trying to gain some space away from him. Vernon was still on the floor, gripping his shoulder wound and gritting his teeth.

Stiles decided to go for scared and hysterical, which wasn't that hard given the circumstances. Ignorance was going to be tougher to perceive on his face; he knew that Allison and Scott were OK. At least, that's what Erica's earlier words had implied.

Peter, meanwhile, was sizing Erica up, cocking his head to the side as he examined her. "Now, who is this delicate creature?" he asked. "Is this the legendary Catwoman who's held you back so much?" He turned his full attention to her. Stiles noticed how Erica kept a steady hand on her belly, her eyes fixed on Peter's bloodthirsty ones.

"That's right," Erica replied haughtily, sticking her chin up. "I got claws, so don't get too close, sweetheart."

Peter gave out a short, cold laugh. "Everything would have proceeded a lot more quickly if you hadn't been around, stifling his senses." He nodded toward Stiles, and Stiles repressed a shiver. He hated how Peter still looked at him, like he owned him.

He doesn't, Stiles told himself. He doesn't own a damn thing about me.

"I don't know how I did that," Erica replied coolly. "But I'm glad it's been working."

"I would have gotten to him within that first night if your presence in his life hadn't been clouding his mind," Peter growled out. "And now you've botched up my other plans indirectly. It's rather like a domino effect, the way you've sunk your claws in and ruined everything."

"Erica doesn't have anything to do with this," Stiles said, and he gave out a small shout as Peter shoved the gun further into his throat. He heard the click of the gun, and he swallowed nervously. Stiles felt the tears coming on, but he forced them back. He couldn't show weakness in front of Peter anymore. He didn't deserve Stiles' weaknesses, not after everything he's done.

"She has such a tight hold on you that you haven't even noticed it," Peter said. He gave Erica a push, and she stumbled back. "On your knees," he ordered. Erica rolled her eyes, but she complied when Peter slid the gun from Stiles' throat down to his torso. She bent down slowly, her eyes trained on Stiles the whole time.

"How many weeks?"

Stilesstared at Peter, utterly perplexed. "What?"

"Not you," snapped Peter, shaking the other gun impatiently at Erica. "She knows what I'm talking about. So let me repeat the question, my dear: How. Many. Weeks?"

"Exactly three when tomorrow hits," Erica sneered. "What, are you jealous?"

Stiles felt completely lost at this point. He reeled back his mind to the last time he saw Erica in the flesh; it had been the morning where he had said good-bye, and they had sex. Stiles looked over at her; her hand was still on her stomach.

Three weeks. Erica was looking off-color, as if she had been sick lately. But Erica was always at the peak of her physical health; she ate three square meals a day with no exceptions.

Wait a second, did he and Erica use a condom last time?

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

Holy _shit_.

Even if the mind blowing revelation had been happening in a better, less life-threatening situation, Stiles would still be stunned into silence.

"No way," Stiles mouthed. This was a discussion for him and Erica to have somewhere else, far away from the maniac threatening to shoot them dead. There were no longer three lives at stake, but four.

He wasn't prepared for this.

"That's unfortunate," Peter sighed, his voice driving Stiles back to the present circumstances. "But you brought this onto yourself; if you had just let me finish what I started then you wouldn't have to die."

"You took my boy," Erica said darkly, and Stiles felt a swell of affection for her in that moment. "You don't understand the chain of events that you had unleashed when you texted Allison that sketchy address. You don't know how overprotective his brother is; he would've wiped the floor with your entrails."

"Big words," Peter said. "Coming from someone who's at my mercy."

That's when everything happened at once. Vernon shot off the ground, grabbing Peter's legs and tackling him to the hard floor. The gun pointed at Stiles went off, and he screamed in pain as a bullet whizzed through his arm, a clear through-and-through. He heard the bullet ping the wall behind him as blood spurted from his wound. He collapsed to the ground as Vernon wrestled one of the guns out of Peter's grasp. Erica crawled over to him, applying firm pressure to his room. Her hands were soon drenched crimson. Stiles was starting to feel light-headed as blood soaked his shirt. He tried to sit up, but he slouched against Erica, his body sagging and going pliant as she tried to staunch the flow.

"Stay awake, alright?" she said. Stiles nodded blearily. Vernon was now standing above Peter, aiming the gun at the other man's face.

"Do you feel proud, Vernon?" Peter asked. He spat out a mixture of blood and saliva from his mouth; Vernon had clocked him good. Peter's cheek was bruised from Vernon's fist. "Do you feel satisfied to know that your assumptions about me have been proven true?"

"I know who you are," Vernon replied calmly. "I've looked up everything about the Hale fire. I thought I was seeing a ghost, the way you showed up at my bar. But you're actually him, aren't you? You're Peter Hale." He left out a hiss of air, tilted the gun down, and squeezed the trigger. A bullet rang out, lodging itself firmly into Peter's thigh. Peter swore, but his gaze never left Vernon's face.

"I'm sorry for your loss," continued Vernon. "I know what it's like to lose someone precious to you. You just want to take it out on the world, don't you? It feels good, getting back at someone that caused you harm. But you've gone too far, Peter. Vengeance is one thing, but what you're attempting to do is murder. Do you have any proof that the rest of the Argents were involved with the fire?"

"Kate Argent headlined the entire plot," Peter sneered. "Therefore, the rest of them are guilty by association." He held up his remaining gun, and pointed it at Stiles.

"I lost them all," Peter said, his gaze unwavering and relentless. "How would you feel, if everyone you loved were ripped away from you?"

"You're a fucking hypocrite, you know that?" Stiles snapped out. He felt weary, but seeing Peter trying to gain his sympathy was disgusting. "You know how important Allison is to me, and you were going to kill her anyway."

"It's not my problem that you love the wrong people," Peter said, glaring at Erica.

"You raped me," Stiles said more quietly.

Peter rolled his eyes. "You consented last night, did you not?"

"Yeah, I did," Stiles agreed. "But that doesn't mean it carries over to the next day. You raped me." His voice was getter louder, more hysterical. Erica clutched him as Stiles began to scream at Peter, sounding the same miserable words over and over. "YOU RAPED ME!" Uncontrollable sobs bubbled out of his throat. He pressed his face into Erica's chest, willing for this nightmare to end.

Peter, on the other hand, wasn't amused by Stiles' crying. He looked like he was ready to pull the trigger, but Vernon still had the gun aimed at him.

"The police should be here at any moment," he informed Peter.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Yes, to arrest _you_ for breaking and entering. I will tell them that I shot you out of self-defence."

"What's your excuse for shooting an unarmed civilian then?" Vernon demanded calmly. Peter remained silent. Stiles wondered how the bartender could be so cool and collected when faced with a madman. Having a weapon on hand must've helped. His bar was located in a safe area, so how often did he have to deal with a robbery or a hold-up?

"One of the secretaries downstairs saw you go up to your penthouse with Stiles. That's going to bring up a lot of unpleasant questions for you. Why would you shoot a houseguest? Also, Stiles can get testing done at the hospital and prove all of the accusations he has against you." Vernon gave Stiles a quick, sympathetic look before returning his attention to Peter.

"You think you got me trapped in such a clever way," the older man hissed. Another shot rang out. Stiles barely felt the bullet pierce his stomach. Erica screamed as Peter jumped to his feet, giving Vernon a swift punch across the face. A guy like Vernon with his impressionable build barely staggered, but it was enough. Peter shoved Vernon aside, making his way to the front door.

Stiles' vision blurred. Everything sounded so far away; Erica's screams as she tried to halt the blood flow from his new wound, Vernon's shouts of protests as he ran after Peter.

He thought he heard sirens, but he must've been imagining them. There was no way he would hear them from so far up.

* * *

Stiles woke up with a sterile smell filling his nose. He sat up, groaning and wincing from an immense pain in his stomach. He looked down, and his view came back into focus.

He was wearing a hospital gown, and lower half were covered with crisp linen sheets. He was hooked up to several machines that surrounded him like mechanical guardians.

I'm dead, he thought. He remembered Peter shooting him, the blood, Erica screaming at him to stay awake, and then nothing. And now he was dead.

But why would he dream of the hospital if he was? Stiles had bad memories of that place, all of the white halls and the faceless doctors telling his father about the treatments they were going to try on his mother.

If he was dead, would he get to see her again?

"Stiles?"

He looked to his right, now fully awake. Erica was sitting next to his bed, her hands clasped over his. It was the one with the broken wrist, only now there was a small cast encasing the injury that had been agonizing to him before.

"Hey there Sleepyhead," she said, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. Stiles stared at her in bewilderment.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"Where do you think?" she replied with a cat-like grin.

"Not… his place," Stiles said back.

Erica gave out a small laugh. "Nope, that's for sure. The ambulance got there in time to get you to the hospital. There was a ton of questions asked, but Vernon's dealing with them right now."

Panic suddenly rose in Stiles' chest. "What happened to Peter?" he asked urgently. "Is he dead? Please help me he's dead!"

The defeated expression Erica gave him was his answer. Stiles sunk back down into the pillows, trying to fight off the tears. Man, he's been doing a lot of that lately, crying. It sucked and he felt like a wimp when he did, but at the same time it was cathartic.

"So what happened?" Stiles asked quietly.

Erica leaned over, smoothing down Stiles' hair. "Vernon went after him while I phoned 911. Peter… I don't know how he managed to get away, but he did. He must have knocked Vernon out because the police found him on the staircase."

"How is he?" Stiles asked. "I mean, he got shot right? That must've hurt like a bitch."

"Takes one to know one," Erica laughed weakly. "But seriously, he's okay. He's getting patched up right now."

Voices could be heard on the other side of the door. Stiles tried to strain his ears to listen. He could make out Scott's muffled voice arguing with someone.

"Apparently some FBI hotshots want to question you," Erica explained, rolling her eyes. "Scott isn't happy about it."

"Is my dad here?" Stiles asked. His father was going to retire in a couple of years—he and Claudia had Stiles so late in life—but he should be here, manning security or something.

"He'll be here soon," Erica replied. "Scott phoned him before coming to the hospital."

Stiles hated to sound like a parrot, repeating the same words, but he had to know. "What about Allison? Is she alright?"

"She went to the cafeteria to grab some food," said Erica. "Her parents are with her, so you don't have to worry about her going off on her own and getting killed."

Erica was one step ahead in his thoughts, as usual. "Thank you," he said.

"For what?" Erica said, grinning at him. She raised an eyebrow, trying to coax him to sing his praises to her. Which he didn't mind; she deserved all of them.

"For stopping Allison from falling into a trap," Stiles began. "For finding me. For everything, really."

Erica bent over, and kissed Stiles on the mouth. Her breath smelled like mint and her lips were soft; a comforting touch that lingered long after they broke apart.

"So," Stiles said, his eyes looking over at her stomach. "Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?"

Erica sighed. She stood up, and walked over to the other side of his bed, and sat down on it. Stiles moved over enough to give her some room and she curled up next to him. She gently grabbed his hand, and placed it on her belly.

"I just found out about a week ago," she said. "I was going to call, but—I don't know, I froze up."

"The great Erica Reyes got cold feet?" Stiles grinned, and she lightly swatted at his arm.

"I was terrified, because we had always been so careful and we forgot the condom last time," she said. "I didn't even realize that my time of month was coming up, so I was obviously ovulating."

"We got caught up in the heat of the moment," Stiles murmured. He slid his hand down her stomach, and closed his eyes. He couldn't believe it; he was going to be a father. He was twenty-three years old, and he was going to be a dad. The idea seemed surreal to him; it was just so hard to comprehend at this time.

What would he tell his future son or daughter? Hey, me and your Mom conceived you because I wanted to have sex with a guy who turned out to be a killer!

But the thought of Peter sullied the thoughts, and he forced them away. He didn't want to think about Peter right now; he wanted to focus on his family.

Because Erica definitely had to be family now even though she was before, deep down.

"So what's your plan?" Stiles asked. "Are you going to keep the baby?"

"No," Erica replied, and Stiles felt sad for some reason. He was all about Pro-Choice; it was Erica's body, and she didn't have to go through with the pregnancy if she didn't want to. His hopes had just momentarily gone up, that's all.

"I'm not aborting it either," she said, and Stiles felt his heart lift. "There's this woman named Lydia Martin, and she's been searching for a surrogate for a while now. I found her online, where she posted an ad. I told her that I already had a bun in the oven, and wondered if she was willing to adopt instead. The kid won't have her genes, but whatever right? 'Family doesn't end in blood, boy.'"

Stiles laughed softly at the reference. "I'm glad. Well, it was going to be your decision either way, but… I'm glad."

"Stiles," Erica said seriously. "I wanted you to know, but I didn't want to burden you with the fact that you got me knocked up."

"It's OK," he said. "I mean, I get it. Well, as best as I can because the last time I checked men can't get pregnant. I just hate that you had to reveal it when we were at gunpoint."

"Yeah," said Erica. "Me too."

That's when the door pushed open, and Scott burst into the room, looking relieved at getting away from whoever he had been arguing with. "Stiles!" he yelled, racing over to the bed. Erica got up, giving Stiles' shoulder a gentle squeeze and a look that promised that they'd talk about this in more detail later. Right now Stiles had to deal with a panicky Scott, who pulled out his inhaler and took a few, quick spurts from it.

"Hey buddy," Stiles said, giving him a small smile. Scott practically climbed on top of him, embracing him without squeezing too tightly. He hid his face in Stiles' shoulder and shuddered out some shaky breathing. Stiles patted his back, just breathing him in.

"I thought—"

"I know," Stiles interrupted. He felt the old guilt bubble up past the surface from when they were fifteen, when Stiles had slipped from Scott's radar and had caused him to go into hysterics. Stiles had promised to never let Scott feel that helpless again and yet here they were. Only this time, the guy was still out there, free to do as he pleased.

"I'm sorry," Scott said.

"For what?" Stiles asked, surprised. "Scotty, you had nothing to do with this, alright? None of it was your fault."

"I know, but still," said Scott mournfully. He pulled away from Stiles, cupping his face in his hands. "I didn't want this to happen."

"Hey, NOBODY wanted this to happen," Stiles said.

"I thought Peter was just some dick, but now the FBI is swarming the place," Scott explained. "Apparently Peter has been on their radar for quite some time. That's what… what _he_ said, anyway."

Ah, _him._ Stiles saw the way Scott's jaw clench and his muscles tighten from the conditioning of past childhood memories. Stiles moved in, pressing his lips against Scott's, and he felt Scott relax into their old, familiar habit.

"Did she say yes?" Stiles asked after they broke apart.

Scott nodded, and Stiles breathed a sigh of happiness. "Congrats, man. Oh geez, that means we can't fool around anymore. I can't afford to be your mistress."

"Then we'll just have to include Allison," Scott murmured slyly.

Stiles' eyes widened in surprise as Scott surged forward for another kiss. Was Scott suggesting what he thought he was suggesting? Stiles' cheeks grew warm at the thought.

"Okay buddy, my lips are going to go numb if you keep this up," Stiles said after a minute. He shoved weakly at Scott, and winced from the pain in his arm and stomach. Scott immediately backed away, concern washing over him.

"Is my dad here?" Stiles asked. "Erica said that you phoned him." He needed to see him; it felt like forever since he laid eyes on his father.

"Uh, yeah," Scott said. He was now sitting on the edge of Stiles' bed, their fingers twining together. "He was here while you were asleep and only left an hour ago when he got called for something. He wants to see you so badly, but he told me to come see you first. I think he thought that I would go crazy if I didn't see you."

"He thought right," said Stiles. He made a little shooing motion with his cast-bound hand, and Scott obliged. He pressed a kiss to Stiles' forehead and then left the room, though reluctantly.

The door didn't even close halfway before John Stilinski was pushing his way in, worry creasing at his brow. He took up the vacant seat next to Stiles' bed, and rested a hand on his son's shoulder.

"Hey kiddo," he said quietly. His body was stiff and on alert, and Stiles felt shame burn through him. His father didn't know much about his private, sex-slinging life and the newfound consequences they had brought along. This whole time Stiles had been focussed on Allison and Scott's safety and didn't even think about his father. His mind was telling him that it was okay, that Peter's number one target had been the Argents and so making sure that Allison survived was top priority. But John was his father; if Peter had discovered Stiles' true name through impeccable research, then it was no stretch of the imagination that he knew who his father was.

Peter was still out there; he could find the Sheriff when he was alone, and—

"Stiles, what's wrong?"

Stiles blinked away some stray tears before wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Do you know what's going on?"

John nodded slowly. "I was there when the 911 call from Erica was made. We got there at the same time as the ambulance was putting you in the back. You were in rough shape, and they weren't sure whether you'd make it or not." He gave Stiles' shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You got yourself mixed up the wrong person, it looks like."

"That's an understatement," Stiles murmured.

So he didn't know about Stiles' and Peter's "interactions" so far. Stiles knew that there was going to be a shitload of questions about why he, Erica, and Vernon were in Peter's penthouse, and Stiles was afraid to admit why he was there at all. He hated lying to his dad, but he didn't want him to know the things he let Peter do to him that night. Speaking of which—

"What day is it?" Stiles asked.

"July eighth," John replied. "But now that you're awake, they're going to start questioning you." _They_ obviously being the FBI and in extension, Agent McCall. Or as Stiles liked to call him, Asshole McCall. It was a more fitting title for the bastard anyway.

"So they're just going to barge in on a patient and bombard them with accusations?" Stiles asked. "How thoughtful of them."

"Melissa has been insisting that you're still recovering from being shot, but a certain individual is trying to make things difficult," John sighed.

Even if the FBI did want the latest scoop on Peter Hale and his murder spree, Stiles wasn't going to be the most cooperative witness if Asshole McCall was headlining the "questioning." The creep had a knack for turning the blame around and using it against the innocent victims and act like it was their fault that they had been caught up in the situation. He had gotten a ton of practice mastering that technique when he was still in Scott's life.

"Then I'll just pretend to be asleep until they send the right agent in," said Stiles, closing his eyes to demonstrate. John laughed softly, sounding a little strained, and Stiles took his hand, holding it tightly. Sometimes he wished that he was still a kid so that his dad could handle everything. He wanted someone else to be the responsible one. But Stiles had gotten himself into this mess, and it wouldn't be fair to make someone else deal with it.

"I love you," Stiles said.

John nodded. "Love you too kid."

An easy silence fell between them, with John occasionally brushing Stiles' hair back and asking him how's he been or if he was in any pain. John refused to leave even when one of the doctors came in to check on Stiles' vitals and said that he should get some rest.

"I'm resting," Stiles said stubbornly. "I'm lying in bed and everything. Plus, I haven't seen Allison yet." He needed to see her, to have physical proof in front of his eyes that she was okay.

"I'll go get her," John said, reluctantly getting up. "I'll send Erica in to stay with you."

"She's still here?" Stiles asked, surprised.

"Yeah, she is." John raised an eyebrow, skeptical of Stiles' question for some reason. "She needed to see a doctor too."

"Oh" was all Stiles said before it hit him. _Oh._

"Yeah, I'll be discussing that with you two after you're well enough."

"Okay," replied Stiles sheepishly. He himself had just barely found out about being a baby daddy, and now his father had figured it out. He was the Sheriff for a good reason, that's for sure.


End file.
